PR 

4527 
,P76 
1900 


o 

0 

1 

0 
3 
6 

II 

9! 


A  PR(WENCE 


COSYCORN6R  SCRIES 


LIBRARY 


I      UNIVERSITY  OP 
SAN  DIEGO 


;R\JF 


PR 
4521 


1300 


A  PROVENCE  ROSE. 


Works  of 

Louisa  de  la  Rame 

("Ouida") 


A  Dog  of  Flanders 
The  Niirnberg  Stove 
A  Provence  Rose 
Two  Little  Wooden  Shoes 


L.  C.  PAGE  AND  COMPANY 

(Incorporated) 

212  Summer  St.,  Boston,  Mass. 


"Cosy  Corner  Series  ' 


A  PROVENCE  ROSE 

BY 

LOUISA  DE  LA  RAME 
("OUIDA") 

ILLUSTRATED 


BOSTON 
L.    C.    PAGE    AND    COMPANY 

(INCORPORATED) 
1900 


COPYRIGHT,  1893 

UY 

JOSEPH  KNIUHT  COMPANY 


"You  PAINTED  THIS,  M.  RENE  CLAUDE?"     Frontispiece. 

"A  YOING  GIKI,  HAD  FOUND  AND  RESCUED  ME"      .  7 

"  IN  A  VERY  NARROW  STREET"    .        .        .        .        .  13 

"HE  WAS  A  PAINTER" 22 

"ONE  NICHT  .    .    .   Liu   CAME  TO  MY  SIDE  BY  THE 

OPEN  LATTICE"      .                 28 

"  SHE  FELL  ON  HER  KNEES  BEFORE  IT  "      .        .        .  39 

TAILPIECE,  PART  1 42 

HEADPIECE,  PART  II 43 

TAILPIECE,  PART  II 75 


A  PROVENCE  ROSE 


PART   FIRST. 


I  WAS  a  Provence  rose. 

A  little  slender  rose,  with  leaves  of  shining 
green  and  blossoms  of  purest  white,  —  a  little 
fragile  thing,  but  fair,  they  said,  growing  in  the 
casement  in  a  chamber  in  a  street. 

I  remember  my  birth-country  well.  A  great 
wild  garden,  where  roses  grew  together  by  mill- 
ions and  tens  of  millions,  all  tossing  our  bright 
heads  in  the  light  of  a  southern  sun  on  the 
edge  of  an  old,  old  city  —  old  as  Rome— — 
whose  ruins  were  clothed  with  the  wild  fig-tree 
and  the  scarlet  blossom  of  the  climbing  creep- 
ers growing  tall  and  free  in  our  glad  air  of 
France. 

I  remember  how  the  ruined  aqueduct  went 
like  a  dark  shadow  straight  across  the  plains ; 
how  the  green  and  golden  lizards  crept  in  and 
out  and  about  amongst  the  grasses;  how  the 
cicala  sang  her  song  in  the  moist,  sultry  eves ; 


2  A   PROVENCE   ROSE. 

how  the  women  from  the  wells  came  trooping 
by,  stately  as  monarchs,  with  their  water-jars 
upon  their  heads ;  how  the  hot  hush  of  the 
burning  noons  would  fall,  and  all  things  droop 
and  sleep  except  ourselves  ;  how  swift  amongst 
us  would  dart  the  little  blue-winged  birds,  and 
hide  their  heads  in  our  white  breasts  and  drink 
from  our  hearts  the  dew,  and  then  hover  above 
us  in  their  gratitude,  with  sweet,  faint  music  of 
their  wings,  till  sunset  came. 

I  remember—  But  what  is  the  use?  I  am 
only  a  rose ;  a  thing  born  for  a  day,  to  bloom 
and  be  gathered,  and  die.  So  you  say:  you 
must  know.  God  gave  you  all  created  things 
for  your  pleasure  and  use.  So  you  say. 

There  my  birth  was;  there  I  lived — in  the 
wide  south,  with  its  strong,  quivering  light,  its 
radiant  skies,  its  purple  plains,  its  fruits  of 
gourd  and  vine.  I  was  young;  I  was  happy; 
I  lived  :  it  was  enough. 

One  day  a  rough  hand  tore  me  from  my 
parent  stem  and  took  me,  bleeding  and  droop- 
ing, from  my  birthplace,  with  a  thousand  other 
captives  of  my  kind.  They  bound  a  score  of 
us  up  together,  and  made  us  a  cruel  substitute 
for  our  cool,  glad  garden-home  with  poor 
leaves,  all  wet  from  their  own  tears,  and  mosses 


A   PROVENCE   ROSE.  3 

torn  as  we  were  from  their  birth-nests  under 
the  great  cedars  that  rose  against  the  radiant 
native  skies. 

Then  we  were  shut  in  darkness  for  I  know 
not  how  long  a  space ;  and  when  we  saw  the 
light  of  day  again  we  were  lying  with  our  dear 
dead  friends,  the  leaves,  with  many  flowers  of 
various  kinds,  and  foliage  and  ferns  and  shrubs 
and  creeping  plants,  in  a  place  quite  strange 
to  us,  —  a  place  filled  with  other  roses  and  with 
all  things  that  bloom  and  bear  in  the  rich  days 
of  midsummer,  —  a  place  which  I  heard  them 
call  the  market  of  the  Madeleine.  And  when 
I  heard  that  name  I  knew  that  I  was  in  Paris. 

For  many  a  time,  when  the  dread  hand  of 
the  reaper  had  descended  upon  us,  and  we  had 
beheld  our  fairest  and  most  fragrant  relatives 
borne  away  from  us  to  death,  a  shiver  that  was 
not  of  the  wind  had  run  through  all  our  boughs 
and  blossoms,  and  all  the  roses  had  murmured 
in  sadness  and  in  terror,  "  Better  the  worm  or 
the  drought,  the  blight  or  the  fly,  the  whirl- 
wind that  scatters  us  as  chaff,  or  the  waterspout 
that  levels  our  proudest  with  the  earth  —  better 
any  of  these  than  the  long-lingering  death  by 
famine  and  faintness  and  thirst  that  awaits 
every  flower  which  goes  to  the  Madeleine." 


4  A   TROVENCE   ROSE. 

It  was  an  honor,  no  doubt,  to  be  so  chosen. 
A  rose  was  the  purest,  the  sweetest,  the  haught- 
iest of  all  her  sisterhood  ere  she  went  thither. 
But,  though  honor  is  well  no  doubt,  yet  it 
surely  is  better  to  blow  free  in  the  breeze  and 
to  live  one's  life  out,  and  to  be,  if  forgotten  by 
glory,  yet  also  forgotten  by  pain.  Nay,  yet: 
I  have  known  a  rose,  even  a  rose  who  had  but 
one  little  short  life  of  a  summer  day  to  live 
through  and  to  lose,  perish  glad  and  trium- 
phant in  its  prime  because  it  died  on  a  woman's 
breast  and  of  a  woman's  kiss.  You  see  there 
are  roses  as  weak  as  men  are. 

I  awoke,  I  say,  from  my  misery  and  my  long 
night  of  travel,  with  my  kindred  beside  me  in 
exile,  on  a  flower-stall  of  the  Madeleine. 

It  was  noon  —  the  pretty  place  was  full  of 
people :  it  was  June,  and  the  day  was  brilliant. 
A  woman  of  Picardy  sat  with  us  on  the  board 
before  her, —  a  woman  with  blue  eyes  and  ear- 
rings of  silver,  who  bound  us  together  in  fifties 
and  hundreds  into  those  sad  gatherings  of  our 
pale  ghosts  which  in  your  human  language  you 
have  called  "  bouquets."  The  loveliest  and 
greatest  amongst  us  suffered  decapitation,  as 
your  Marie  Stuarts  and  Marie  Antoinettes  did, 
and  died  at  once  to  have  their  beautiful,  bright 


A   PROVENCE   ROSE.  5 

heads  impaled  —  a  thing  of  death,  a  mere 
mockery  of  a  flower  —  on  slender  spears  of 
wire.  I,  a  little  white  and  fragile  thing,  and 
very  young,  was  in  no  way  eminent  enough 
amongst  my  kind  to  find  that  martyrdom  which 
as  surely  awaits  the  loveliest  of  our  roses  as  it 
awaits  the  highest  fame  of  your  humanity. 

I  was  bound  up  amongst  a  score  of  others 
with  ropes  of  gardener's  bass  to  chain  me 
amidst  my  fellow-prisoners,  and  handed  over 
by  my  jailer  with  the  silver  ear-rings  to  a  youth 
who  paid  for  us  with  a  piece  of  gold  —  whether 
of  great  or  little  value  I  know  not  now.  None 
of  my  own  roses  were  with  me :  all  were  stran- 
gers. You  never  think,  of  course,  that  a  little 
rose  can  care  for  its  birthplace  or  its  kindred ; 
but  you  err. 

O  fool !  Shall  we  not  care  for  one  another  ? 
—we  who  have  so  divine  a  life  in  common, 
who  together  sleep  beneath  the  stars,  and  to- 
gether sport  in  the  summer  wind,  and  together 
listen  to  the  daybreak  singing  of  the  birds, 
whilst  the  world  is  dark  and  deaf  in  slumber  — 
we  who  know  that  we  are  all  of  heaven  that  God, 
when  He  called  away  His  angels,  bade  them 
leave  on  the  sin-stained,  weary,  sickly  earth  to 
now  and  then  make  man  remember  Him ! 


6  A   PROVENCE   ROSE. 

You  err.  We  love  one  another  well ;  and  if 
we  may  not  live  in  union,  we  crave  at  least 
in  union  to  droop  and  die.  It  is  seldom  that 
we  have  this  boon.  Wild  flowers  can  live  and 
die  together ;  so  can  the  poor  amongst  you : 
but  we  of  the  cultivated  garden  needs  must 
part  and  die  alone. 

All  the  captives  with  me  were  strangers: 
haughty,  scentless  pelargoniums;  gardenias, 
arrogant  even  in  their  woe ;  a  knot  of  little, 
humble  forget-me-nots,  ashamed  in  the  grand 
company  of  patrician  prisoners ;  a  stephanalis, 
virginal  and  pure,  whose  dying  breath  was 
peace  and  sweetness  ;  and  many  sprays  of  myr- 
tle born  in  Rome,  whose  classic  leaves  wailed 
Tasso's  lamentation  as  they  went. 

I  must  have  been  more  loosely  fettered  than 
the  rest  were,  for  in  the  rough,  swift  motion  of 
the  youth  who  bore  us  my  bonds  gave  way  and 
I  fell  through  the  silver  transparency  of  our 
prison-house,  and  dropped  stunned  upon  the 
stone  pavement  of  a  street. 

There  I  lay  long,  half  senseless,  praying,  so 
far  as  I  had  consciousness,  that  some  pitying 
wind  would  rise  and  waft  me  on  his  wings  away 
to  some  shadow,  some  rest,  some  fresh,  cool 
place  of  silence. 


A   PROVENCE   ROSE. 


I  was  tortured  with  thirst ;   I  was  choked  with 
dust ;    I  was  parched  with  heat. 

The  sky  was  as  brass,  the  stones  as  red-hot 
metal ;  the  sun  scorched 
like  flame  on  the  glare  of 
the  staring  walls;  the 
heavy  feet  of  the  hurrying 
crowd  tramped  past  me 
black  and  ponderous; 
with  every  step  I  thought 
my  death  would  come 
under  the  crushing  weight 
of  those  clanging  heels. 

It  was  five  seconds, 
five  hours  —  which  I  know 
not.  The  torture  was  too 
horrible  to  be  measured 
by  time.  I  must  have 
been  already  dead,  or  at 
the  very  gasp  of  death, 
when  a  cool,  soft  touch 
was  laid  on  me ;  I  was 
gently  lifted,  raised  to 

••w 

tender     lips,    and    fanned 

with  a  gentle,  cooling  breath, — breath  from  the 

lips  that  had  kissed  me. 

A  young  girl  had  found  and  rescued  me, — 


8  A   PROVENCE    ROSE. 

a  girl  of  the  people,  poor  enough  to  deem  a 
trampled  flower  a  treasure-trove. 

She  carried  me  very  gently,  carefully  veiling 
me  from  sun  and  dust  as  we  went;  and  when  I 
recovered  perception  I  was  floating  in  a  porce- 
lain bath  on  the  surface  of  cool,  fresh  water, 
from  which  I  drank  eagerly  as  soon  as  my  sickly 
sense  of  faintness  passed  away. 

My  bath  stood  on  the  lattice-sill  of  a  small 
chamber ;  it  was,  I  knew  afterward,  but  a  white 
pan  of  common  earthenware,  such  as  you  buy 
for  two  sous  and  put  in  your  birdcages.  But 
no  bath  of  ivory  and  pearl  and  silver  was  ever 
more  refreshing  to  imperial  or  patrician  limbs 
than  was  that  little  clean  and  snowy  pattypan 
to  me. 

Under  its  reviving  influences  I  became  able 
to  lift  my  head  and  raise  my  leaves  and  spread 
myself  to  the  sunlight,  and  look  round  me. 
The  chamber  was  in  the  roof,  high  above  the 
traffic  of  the  passage-way  beneath ;  it  was  very 
poor,  very  simple,  furnished  with  few  and  homely 
things.  True,  to  all  our  nation  of  flowers  it 
matters  little,  when  we  are  borne  into  captivity, 
whether  the  prison-house  which  receives  us  be 
palace  or  garret.  Not  to  us  can  it  signify  whether 
we  perish  in  Sevres  vase  of  royal  blue,  or  in 


A   PROVENCE   ROSE.  9 

kitchen  pipkin  of  brown  ware.  Your  lordliest 
halls  can  seem  but  dark,  pent,  noisome  dungeons 
to  creatures  born  to  live  on  the  wide  plain,  by 
the  sunlit  meadow,  in  the  hedgerow,  or  the  forest, 
or  the  green,  leafy  garden-way ;  tossing  always 
in  the  joyous  winds,  and  looking  always  upward 
to  the  open  sky. 

But  it  is  of  little  use  to  dwell  on  this.  You 
think  that  flowers,  like  animals,  were  only  created 
to  be  used  and  abused  by  you,  and  that  we, 
like  your  horse  and  dog,  should  be  grateful 
when  you  honor  us  by  slaughter  or  starvation 
at  your  hands.  To  be  brief,  this  room  was 
very  humble,  a  mere  attic,  with  one  smaller  still 
opening  from  it;  but  I  scarcely  thought  of  its 
size  or  aspect.  I  looked  at  nothing  but  the 
woman  who  had  saved  me.  She  was  quite 
young ;  not  very  beautiful,  perhaps,  except  for 
wonderful  soft  azure  eyes,  and  a  mouth  smiling 
and  glad,  with  lovely  curves  to  the  lips,  and  hair 
dark  as  a  raven's  wing,  which  was  braided  and 
bound  close  to  her  head.  She  was  clad  very 
poorly,  yet  with  an  exquisite  neatness  and  even 
grace  ;  for  she  was  of  the  people  no  doubt,  but  of 
the  people  of  France.  Her  voice  was  very  me- 
lodious ;  she  had  a  silver  cross  on  her  bosom ; 
and,  though  her  face  was  pale,  it  had  health. 


10  A   PROVENCE   ROSE. 

She  was  my  friend,  I  felt  sure.  Yes,  even 
when  she  held  me  and  pierced  me  with  steel  and 
murmured  over  me,  "  They  say  roses  are  so 
hard  to  rear  so,  and  you  are  such  a  little  thing ; 
but  do  grow  to  a  tree  and  live  with  me.  Surely, 
you  can  if  you  try." 

She  had  wounded  me  sharply  and  thrust  me 
into  a  tomb  of  baked  red  clay  filled  with  black 
and  heavy  mould.  But  I  knew  that  I  was 
pierced  to  the  heart  that  I  might  —  though  only 
a  little  offshoot  gathered  to  die  in  a  day  — strike 
root  of  my  own  and  be  strong,  and  carry  a 
crown  of  fresh  blossoms.  For  she  but  dealt 
with  me  as  your  world  deals  with  you,  when 
your  heart  aches  and  your  brain  burns,  and 
Fate  stabs  you,  and  says  in  your  ear,  "  O  fool ! 
to  be  great  you  must  suffer."  You  to  your  fate 
are  thankless,  being  human ;  but  I,  a  rose,  was 
not. 

I  tried  to  feel  not  utterly  wretched  in  that 
little,  dull  clay  cell ;  I  tried  to  forget  my  sweet, 
glad  southern  birthplace,  and  not  to  sicken  and 
swoon  in  the  noxious  gases  of  the  city  air.  I 
did  my  best  not  to  shudder  in  the  vapor  of  the 
stove,  and  not  to  grow  pale  in  the  clammy  heats 
of  the  street,  and  not  to  die  of  useless  lamenta- 
tion for  all  that  I  had  lost  —  for  the  noble  tawny 


A   PROVENCE   ROSE.  I  I 

sunsets,  and  the  sapphire  blue  skies,  and  the 
winds  all  fragrant  with  the  almond-tree  flowers, 
and  the  sunlight  in  which  the  yellow  orioles 
flashed  like  gold. 

I  did  my  best  to  be  content  and  show  my 
gratitude  all  through  a  parching  autumn  and 
a  hateful  winter ;  and  with  the  spring  a  wander- 
ing wind  came  and  wooed  me  with  low,  amorous 
whispers — came  from  the  south,  he  said;  and 
I  learned  that  even  in  exile  in  an  attic  window 
love  may  find  us  out  and  make  for  us  a  country 
and  a  home. 

So  I  lived  and  grew  and  was  happy  there 
against  the  small,  dim  garret  panes,  and  my 
lover  from  the  south  came,  still  faithful,  year  by 
year ;  and  all  the  voices  round  me  said  that  I  was 
fair  —  pale  indeed,  and  fragile  of  strength,  as  a 
creature  torn  from  its  own  land  and  all  its  friends 
must  be,  but  contented  and  glad,  and  grateful 
to  the  God  who  made  me,  because  I  had  not 
lived  in  vain,  but  often  saw  sad  eyes,  half 
blinded  with  toil  and  tears,  smile  at  me  when 
they  had  no  other  cause  for  smiles. 

"  It  is  bitter  to  be  mewed  in  a  city,"  said 
once  to  me  an  old,  old  vine  who  had  been 
thrust  into  the  stones  below  and  had  climbed 
the  house  wall,  Heaven  knew  how,  and  had  lived 


12  A    PROVENCE   ROSE. 

for  half  a  century  jammed  between  buildings, 
catching  a  gleam  of  sunshine  on  his  dusty 
leaves  once  perhaps  in  a  whole  summer.  "It 
is  bitter  for  us.  I  would  rather  have  had  the 
axe  at  my  root  and  been  burned.  But  perhaps 
without  us  the  poorest  of  people  would  never 
remember  the  look  of  the  fields.  When  they 
see  a  green  leaf  they  laugh  a  little,  and  then 
weep  —  some  of  them.  We,  the  trees  and  the 
flowers,  live  in  the  cities  as  those  souls  amongst 
them  whom  they  call  poets  live  in  the  world, — 
exiled  from  heaven  that  by  them  the  world  may 
now  and  then  bethink  itself  of  God." 

And  I  believe  that  the  vine  spoke  truly. 
Surely,  he  who  plants  a  green  tree  in  a  city  way 
plants  a  thought  of  God  in  many  a  human  heart 
arid  with  the  dust  of  travail  and  clogged  with 
the  greeds  of  gold.  So,  with  my  lover  the 
wind  and  my  neighbor  the  vine,  I  was  content 
and  patient,  and  gave  many  hours  of  pleasure 
to  many  hard  lives,  and  brought  forth  many  a 
blossom  of  sweetness  in  that  little  nook  under 
the  roof. 

Had  my  brothers  and  sisters  done  better,  I 
wonder,  living  in  gilded  balconies  or  dying  in 
jewelled  hands? 

I  cannot  say  :  I  can  only  tell  of  myself. 


A   PROVENCE   ROSE. 


The  attic  in  which 
I  found  it  my  fate  to 
dwell  was  very  high 
in  the  air,  set  in  one 
of  the  peaked  roofs 
of  the  quarter  of  the 
Luxembourg,  in  a 
very  narrow  street, 
populous,  and  full  of 
noise,  in  which  people 
of  all  classes,  except 
the  rich,  were  to  be 
found — in  a  medley 
of  artists,  students, 
fruit-sellers,  workers 
in  bronze  and  ivory, 
seamstresses,  obscure 
actresses,  and  all  the 
creators,  male  and 
female,  of  the  thou- 
sand and  one  airy  arts 
of  elegant  nothing- 
ness \vhich  a  world 
of  pleasure  demands 
as  imperatively  as  a 
world  of  labor  de- 
mands its  bread. 


14  A   PROVENCE    ROSE. 

It  would  have  been  a  street  horrible  and  hid- 
eous in  any  city  save  Rome  or  Paris :  in  Rome 
it  would  have  been  saved  by  color  and  antiq- 
uity; in  Paris  it  was  saved  by  color  and 
grace.  Just  a  flash  of  a  bright  drapery,  just 
a  gleam  of  a  gay  hue,  just  some  tender  pink 
head  of  a  hydrangea,  just  some  quaint  curl  of 
some  gilded  woodwork,  just  the  green  glimmer 
of  my  friend  the  vine,  just  the  snowy  sparkle 
of  his  neighbor  the  waterspout, — just  these,  so 
little  and  yet  so  much,  made  the  crooked  pas- 
sage a  bearable  home,  and  gave  it  a  kinship 
with  the  glimpse  of  the  blue  sky  above  its  pent 
roofs. 

O  wise  and  true  wisdom  !  to  redeem  poverty 
with  the  charms  of  outline  and  of  color,  with  the 
green  bough  and  the  song  of  running  water, 
and  the  artistic  harmony  which  is  as  possible  to 
the  rough-hewn  pine-wood  as  in  the  polished 
ebony.  "It  is  of  no  use!"  you  cry.  O  fools! 
Which  gives  you  perfume — we,  the  roses, 
whose  rich  hues  and  matchless  grace  no  human 
artist  can  imitate,  or  the  rose-tremiere,  which 
mocks  us,  standing  stiff  and  gaudy  and  scentless 
and  erect?  Grace  and  pure  color  and  cleanli- 
ness are  the  divinities  that  redeem  the  foulness 
and  the  ignorance  and  the  slavery  of  your 


A   PROVENCE   ROSE.  15 

crushed,  coarse  lives  when  you  have  sight 
enough  to  see  that  they  are  divine. 

In  my  little  attic,  in  whose  window  I  have 
passed  my  life,  they  were  known  gods  and  hon- 
ored ;  so  that,  despite  "the  stovepipe,  and  the 
poverty,  and  the  little  ill-smelling  candle,  and 
the  close  staircase  without,  with  the  rancid  oil  in 
its  lamps  and  its  fetid  faint  odors,  and  the  ref- 
use, and  the  gutters,  and  the  gas  in  the  street 
below,  it  was  possible  for  me,  though  a  rose  of 
Provence  and  a  rose  of  the  open  air  freeborn, 
to  draw  my  breath  in  it  and  to  bear  my  blos- 
soms, and  to  smile  when  my  lover  the  wind 
roused  me  from  sleep  with  each  spring,  and 
said  in  my  ear,"  "  Arise !  for  a  new  year  is 
come."  Now,  to  greet  a  new  year  with  a  smile, 
and  not  a  sigh,  one  must  be  tranquil,  at  least, 
if  not  happy. 

Well,  I  and  the  lattice,  and  a  few  homely 
plants  of  saxafrage  and  musk  and  balsam  who 
bloomed  there  with  me,  and  a  canary  who  hung 
in  a  cage  amongst  us,  and  a  rustic  creeper  who 
clung  to  a  few  strands  of  strained  string  and 
climbed  to  the  roof  and  there  talked  all  day  to 
the  pigeons  —  we  all  belonged  to  the  girl  with 
the  candid,  sweet  eyes,  and  by  name  she  was 
called  Lili  Kerrouel,  and  for  her  bread  she 


1 6  A    PROVENCE   ROSE. 

gilded  and  colored  those  little  cheap  boxes  for 
sweetmeats  that  they  sell  in  the  wooden  booths 
at  the  fairs  on  the  boulevards,  while  the  mirli- 
tons  whirl  in  their  giddy  go-rounds  and  the 
merry  horns  of  the  charlatans  challenge  the 
populace.  She  was  a  girl  of  the  people :  she 
could  read,  but  I  doubt  if  she  could  write.  She 
had  been  born  of  peasant  parents  in  a  Breton 
hamlet,  and  they  had  come  to  Paris  to  seek 
work,  and  had  found  it  for  a  while  and  pros- 
pered, and  then  had  fallen  sick  and  lost  it, 
and  struggled  for  a  while,  and  then  died,  run- 
ning the  common  course  of  so  many  lives 
amongst  you.  They  had  left  Lili  alone  at  six- 
teen, or  rather  worse  than  alone — with  an  old 
grandam,  deaf  and  quite  blind,  who  could  do 
nothing  for  her  own  support,  but  sat  all  day  in 
a  wicker  chair  by  the  lattice  or  the  stove,  ac- 
cording as  the  season  was  hot  or  cold,  and 
mumbled  a  little  inarticulately  over  her  worn 
wooden  beads. 

Her  employers  allowed  Lili  to  bring  these 
boxes  to  decorate  at  home,  and  she  painted  at 
them  almost  from  dawn  to  night.  She  swept, 
she  washed,  she  stewed,  she  fried,  she  dusted ; 
she  did  all  the  housework  of  her  two  little 
rooms ;  she  tended  the  old  woman  in  all  ways ; 


A    PROVENCE   ROSE.  I/ 

and  she  did  all  these  things  with  such  cleanliness 
and  deftness  that  the  attics  were  wholesome  as 
a  palace ;  and  though  her  pay  was  very  small, 
she  yet  found  means  and  time  to  have  her  linen 
spotless  and  make  her  pots  and  pans  shine  like 
silver  and  gold,  and  to  give  a  grace  to  all  the 
place,  with  the  song  of  a  happy  bird  and  the 
fragrance  of  flowers  that  blossomed  their  best 
and  their  sweetest  for  her  sake,  when  they  would 
fain  have  withered  to  the  root  and  died  in  their 
vain  longing  for  the  pure  breath  of  the  fields  and 
the  cool  of  a  green  woodland  world. 

It  was  a  little,  simple,  hard  life,  no  doubt, — 
a  life  one  would  have  said  scarce  worth  all  the 
trouble  it  took  to  get  bread  enough  to  keep  it 
going, —  a  hard  life,  coloring  always  the  same 
eternal  little  prints  all  day  long,  no  matter  how 
sweet  the  summer  day  might  be,  or  how  hot 
the  tired  eyes. 

A  hard  life,  with  all  the  wondrous,  glorious, 
wasteful,  splendid  life  of  the  beautiful  city 
around  it  in  so  terrible  a  contrast ;  with  the  roll 
of  the  carriages  day  and  ntght  on  the  stones 
beneath,  and  the  pattering  of  the  innumerable 
feet  below,  all  hurrying  to  some  pleasure,  and 
every  moment  some  burst  of  music  or  some 
chime  of  bells  or  some  ripple  of  laughter  on 


1 8  A   PROVENCE   ROSE. 

the  air.  A  hard  life,  sitting  one's  self  in  a  little 
dusky  garret  in  the  roof,  and  straining  one's 
sight  for  two  sous  an  hour,  and  listening  to  an 
old  woman's  childish  mutterings  and  reproaches, 
and  having  always  to  shake  the  head  in  refusal 
of  the  neighbors'  invitations  to  a  day  in  the 
woods  or  a  sail  on  the  river.  A  hard  life,  no 
doubt,  when  one  is  young  and  a  woman,  and 
has  soft,  shining  eyes  and  a  red,  curling  mouth. 

And  yet  Lili  was  content. 

Content,  because  she  was  a  French  girl ;  be- 
cause she  had  always  been  poor,  and  thought 
two  sous  an  hour  riches ;  because  she  loved 
the  helpless  old  creature  whose  senses  had  all 
died  while  her  body  lived  on ;  because  she  was 
an  artist  at  heart,  and  saw  beautiful  things 
round  her  even  when  she  scoured  her  brasses 
and  washed  down  her  bare  floor. 

Content,  because  with  it  all  she  managed  to 
gather  a  certain  "sweetness  and  light"  into  her 

o 

youth  of  toil ;  and  when  she  could  give  herself 
a  few  hours'  holiday,  and  could  go  beyond  the 
barriers,  and  roam  a  little  in  the  wooded  places, 
and  come  home  with  a  knot  of  primroses  or  a 
plume  of  lilac  in  her  hands,  she  was  glad  and 
grateful  as  though  she  had  been  given  gold  and 
gems. 


A   PROVENCE   ROSE.  19 

Ah !  In  the  lives  of  you  who  have  wealth 
and  leisure  we,  the  flowers,  are  but  one  thing 
among  many :  we  have  a  thousand  rivals  in 
your  porcelains,  your  jewels,  your  luxuries, 
your  intaglios,  your  mosaics,  all  your  treasures 
of  art,  all  your  baubles  of  fancy.  But  in  the 
lives  of  the  poor  we  are  alone :  we  are  all  the 
art,  all  the  treasure,  all  the  grace,  all  the  beauty 
of  outline,  all  the  purity  of  hue,  that  they  pos- 
sess: often  we  are  all  their  innocence  and  all 
their  religion  too. 

Why  do  you  not  set  yourselves  to  make  us 
more  abundant  in  those  joyless  homes,  in  those 
sunless  windows? 

Now  this  street  of  hers  was  very  narrow :  it 
was  full  of  old  houses,  that  nodded  their  heads 
close  together  as  they  talked,  like  your  old 
crones  over  their  fireside  gossip. 

I  could,  from  my  place  in  the  window,  see 
right  into  the  opposite  garret  window.  It  had 
nothing  of  my  nation  in  it,  save  a  poor  colorless 
stone-wort,  who  got  a  dismal  living  in  the  gutter 
of  the  roof,  yet  who  too,  in  his  humble  way, 
did  good  and  had  his  friends,  and  paid  the  sun 
and  the  dew  for  calling  him  into  being.  For 
on  that  rainpipe  the  little  dusty,  thirsty  spar- 
rows would  rest  and  bathe  and  plume  them- 


2O  A   PROVENCE   ROSE. 

selves,  and  bury  their  beaks  in  the  pale  stone- 
crop,  and  twitter  with  one  another  joyfully,  and 
make  believe  that  they  were  in  some  green  and 
amber  meadow  in  the  country  in  the  cowslip 
time. 

I  did  not  care  much  for  the  stone-crop  or  the 
sparrows ;  but  in  the  third  summer  of  my  cap- 
tivity there  with  Lili  the  garret  casement  oppo- 
site stood  always  open,  as  ours  did,  and  I  could 
watch  its  tenant  night  and  day  as  I  chose. 

He  had  an  interest  for  me. 

He  was  handsome,  and  about  thirty  years 
old ;  with  a  sad  and  noble  face,  and  dark  eyes 
full  of  dreams,  and  cheeks  terribly  hollow,  and 
clothes  terribly  threadbare. 

He  thought  no  eyes  were  on  him  when  my 
lattice  looked  dark,  for  his  garret,  like  ours, 
was  so  high  that  no  glance  from  the  street  ever 
went  to  it.  Indeed,  when  does  a  crowd  ever 
pause  to  look  at  a  garret,  unless  by  chance  a 
man  have  hanged  himself  out  of  its  window? 
That  in  thousands  of  garrets  men  may  be  dying 
by  inches  for  lack  of  bread,  lack  of  hope,  lack 
of  justice,  is  not  enough  to  draw  any  eyes  up- 
ward to  them  from  the  pavement. 

He  thought  himself  unseen,  and  I  watched 
him  many  a  long  hour  of  the  summer  night 


A   PROVENCE   ROSE.  21 

when  I  sighed  at  my  square  open  pane  in  the 
hot,  sulphurous  mists  of  the  street,  and  tried  to 
see  the  stars  and  could  not.  For,  between  me 
and  the  one  small  breadth  of  sky  which  alone 
the  innumerable  roofs  left  visible,  a  vintner  had 
hung  out  a  huge  gilded  imperial  crown  as 
a  sign  on  his  roof-tree ;  and  the  crown,  with  its 
sham  gold  turning  black  in  the  shadow,  hung 
between  me  and  the  planets. 

I  knew  that  there  must  be  many  human  souls 
in  a  like  plight  with  myself,  with  the  light  of 
heaven  blocked  from  them  by  a  gilded  tyranny ; 
and  yet  I  sighed  and  sighed  and  sighed,  think- 
ing of  the  white,  pure  stars  of  Provence  throbb- 
ing in  her  violet  skies. 

A  rose  is  hardly  wiser  than  a  poet,  you  see ; 
neither  rose  nor  poet  will  be  comforted,  and  be 
content  to  dwell  in  darkness  because  a  crown 
of  tinsel  swings  on  high. 

Well,  not  seeing  the  stars  as  I  strove  to  do, 
I  took  refuge  in  sorrow  for  my  neighbor.  It 
is  well  for  your  poet  when  he  turns  to  a  like 
resource.  Too  often  I  hear  he  takes,  instead, 
to  the  wine-cellar  which  yawns  under  the  crown 
that  he  curses. 

My  neighbor,  I  soon  saw,  was  poorer  even 
than  we  were.  He  was  a  painter,  and  he  painted 


22 


A  PROVENCE  ROSE. 


beautiful  things.     But  his  canvases  and  the  nec- 
essaries of  his  art  were  nearly  all  that  his  empty 


attic  had  in  it;   and  when,  after  working  many 
hours  with  a  wretched  glimmer  of  oil,  he  would' 


A  PROVENCE  ROSE.  23 

come  to  his  lattice  and  lean  out,  and  try,  as  I 
had  tried,  to  see  the  stars,  and  fail,  as  I  had 
failed,  I  saw  that  he  was  haggard,  pallid,  and 
weary  unto  death  with  two  dire  diseases,  —  hun- 
ger and  ambition. 

He  could  not  see  the  stars  because  of  the 
crown,  but  in  time,  in  those  long  midsummer 
nights,  he  came  to  see  a  little  glowworm  amongst 
my  blossoms,  which  in  a  manner,  perhaps,  did 
nearly  as  well. 

He  came  to  notice  Lili  at  her  work.  Often 
she  had  to  sit  up  half  the  night  to  get  enough 
coloring  done  to  make  up  the  due  amount  of 
labor ;  and  she  sat  at  her  little  deal  table,  with 
her  little  feeble  lamp,  with  her  beautiful  hair 
coiled  up  in  a  great  knot  and  her  pretty  head 
drooping  so  wearily  —  as  we  do  in  the  long 
days  of  drought  —  but  never  once  looking  off, 
nor  giving  way  to  rebellion  or  fatigue,  though 
from  the  whole  city  without  there  came  one 
ceaseless  sound,  like  the  sound  of  an  endless 
sea;  which  truly  it  was  —  the  sea  of  pleasure. 

Not  for  want  of  coaxings,  not  for  want  of 
tempters,  various  and  subtle,  and  dangers  often 
and  perilously  sweet,  did  Lili  sit  there  in  her 
solitude  earning  two  sous  an  hour  with  strain- 
ing sight  and  aching  nerves  that  the  old 


24  A   TROVENCE   ROSE. 

paralytic  creature  within  might  have  bed  and 
board  without  alms.  Lili  had  been  sore  beset 
in  a  thousand  ways,  for  she  was  very  fair  to 
see ;  but  she  was  proud  and  she  was  innocent, 
and  she  kept  her  courage  and  her  honor ;  yea, 
though  you  smile  —  though  she  dwelt  under 
an  attic  roof,  and  that  roof  a  roof  of  Paris. 

My  neighbor,  in  the  old  gabled  window  over 
the  way,  leaning  above  his  stone-wort,  saw  her 
one  night  thus  at  work  by  her  lamp,  with  the 
silver  ear-rings,  that  were  her  sole  heirloom  and 
her  sole  wealth,  drooped  against  the  soft  hues 
and  curves  of  her  graceful  throat. 

And  when  he  had  looked  once,  he  looked 
every  night,  and  found  her  there ;  and  I,  who 
could  see  straight  into  his  chamber,  saw  that  he 
went  and  made  a  picture  of  it  all  —  of  me,  and 
the  bird  in  the  cage,  and  the  little  old  dusky 
lamp,  and  Lili  with  her  silver  ear-rings  and  her 
pretty,  drooping  head. 

Every  day  he  worked  at  the  picture,  and 
every  night  he  put  his  light  out  and  came  and 
sat  in  the  dark  square  of  his  lattice,  and  gazed 
across  the  street  through  my  leaves  and  my 
blossoms  at  my  mistress.  Lili  knew  nothing  of 
this  watch  which  he  kept  on  her ;  she  had  put 
up  a  little  blind  of  white  network,  and  she 


A   PROVENCE   ROSE.  2$ 

fancied  that  it  kept  out  every  eye  when  it  was 
up  ;  and  often  she  took  even  that  away,  because 
she  had  not  the  heart  to  deprive  me  of  the  few 
faint  breezes  which  the  sultry  weather  gave  us. 

She  never  saw  him  in  his  dark  hole  in  the 
old  gable  there,  and  I  never  betrayed  him — 
not  I.  Roses  have  been  the  flowers  of  silence 
ever  since  the  world  began.  Are  we  not  the 
flowers  of  love? 

"Who  is  he?"  I  asked  of  my  gossip  the  vine. 
The  vine  had  lived  fifty  years  in  the  street,  and 
knew  the  stories  and  sorrows  of  all  the  human 
bees  in  the  hive. 

"  He  is  called  Rene  Claude,"  said  the  vine. 
"He  is  a  man  of  genius.  He  is  very  poor." 

"  You  use  synonyms,"  murmured  the  old 
balsam,  who  heard. 

"  He  is  an  artist,"  the  vine  continued.  "He 
is  young.  He  comes  from  the  south.  His 
people  are  guides  in  the  Pyrenees.  He  is  a 
dreamer  of  dreams.  He  has  taught  himself 
many  things.  He  has  eloquence  too.  There 
is  a  little  club  at  the  back  of  the  house  which 
I  climb  over.  I  throw  a  tendril  or  two  in 
at  the  crevices  and  listen.  The  shutters  are 
closed.  It  is  forbidden  by  law  for  men  to 
meet  so.  There  Rene  speaks  by  the  hour, 


26  A   PROVENCE   ROSE. 

superbly.  Such  a  rush  of  words,  such  a  glance, 
such  a  voice,  like  the  roll  of  musketry  in  anger, 
like  the  sigh  of  music  in  sadness !  Though 
I  am  old,  it  makes  the  little  sap  there  is  left  in 
me  thrill  and  grow  warm.  He  paints  beautiful 
things  too  ;  so  the  two  swallows  say  who  build 
under  his  eaves ;  but  I  suppose  it  is  not  of 
much  use :  no  one  believes  in  him,  and  he  al- 
most starves.  He  is  young  yet,  and  feels  the 
strength  in  him,  and  still  strives  to  do  great 
things  for  the  world  that  does  not  care  a  jot 
whether  he  lives  or  dies.  He  will  go  on  so  a 
little  longer.  Then  he  will  end  like  me.  I  used 
to  try  and  bring  forth  the  best  grapes  I  could, 
though  they  had  shut  me  away  from  any  sun  to 
ripen  them  and  any  dews  to  cleanse  the  dust 
from  them.  But  no  one  cared.  No  one  gave 
me  a  drop  of  water  to  still  my  thirst,  nor  pushed 
away  a  brick  to  give  me  a  ray  more  of  light. 
So  I  ceased  to  try  and  produce  for  their  good ; 
and  I  only  took  just  so  much  trouble  as  would 
keep  life  in  me  myself.  It  will  be  the  same 
with  this  man." 

I,  being  young  and  a  rose,  the  flower  loved 
of  the  poets,  thought  the  vine  was  a  cynic,  as 
many  of  you  human  creatures  grow  to  be  in  the 
years  of  your  age  when  the  leaves  of  your  life 


A   PROVENCE   ROSE.  2 7 

fall  sere.  I  watched  Rene  long  and  often.  He 
was  handsome,  he  suffered  much ;  and  when 
the  night  was  far  spent  he  would  come  to  his 
hole  in  the  gable  and  gaze  with  tender,  dream- 
ing eyes  past  my  pale  foliage  to  the  face  of 
Lili.  I  grew  to  care  for  him,  and  I  disbelieved 
the  prophecy  of  the  vine ;  and  I  promised  my- 
self that  one  summer  or  another,  near  or  far, 
the  swallows,  when  they  came  from  the  tawny 
African  world  to  build  in  the  eaves  of  the  city, 
would  find  their  old  friend  flown  and  living  no 
more  in  a  garret,  but  in  some  art-palace  where 
men  knew  his  fame. 

So  I  dreamed  —  I,  a  little  white  rose,  exiled 
in  the  passage  of  a  city,  seeing  the  pale  moon- 
light reflected  on  the  gray  walls  and  the  dark 
windows,  and  trying  to  cheat  myself  by  a  thou- 
sand fancies  into  the  faith  that  I  once  more 
blossomed  in  the  old,  sweet,  leafy  garden-ways 
in  Provence. 

One  night  —  the  hottest  night  of  the  year  — 
Lili  came  to  my  side  by  the  open  lattice.  It 
was  very  late ;  her  work  was  done  for  the  night. 
She  stood  a  moment,  with  her  lips  rested  softly 
on  me,  looking  down  on  the  pavement  that 
glistened  like  silver  in  the  sleeping  rays  of  the 
moon. 


28 


A   PROVENCE   ROSE. 


A   PROVENCE   ROSE.  29 

For  the  first  time  she  saw  the  painter  Rene 
watching  her  from  his  niche  in  the  gable,  with 
eyes  that  glowed  and  yet  were  dim. 

I  think  women  foresee  with  certain  prescience 
when  they  will  be  loved.  She  drew  the  lattice 
quickly  to,  and  blew  the  lamp  out :  she  kissed 
me  in  the  darkness.  Because  her  heart  was 
glad  or  sorry?  Both,  perhaps. 

Love  makes  one  selfish.  For  the  first  time 
she  left  my  lattice  closed  all  through  the  op- 
pressive hours  until  daybreak. 

"Whenever  a  woman  sees  anything  out  of 
her  window  that  makes  her  eager  to  look  again, 
she  always  shuts  the  shutter.  Why,  I  wonder?  " 
said  the  balsam  to  me. 

"  That  she  may  peep  unsuspected  through 
a  chink,"  said  the  vine  round  the  corner,  who 
could  overhear. 

It  was  profane  of  the  vine,  and  in  regard  to 
Lili  untrue.  She  did  not  know  very  well,  I 
dare  say,  why  she  withdrew  herself  on  that  sud- 
den impulse,  as  the  pimpernel  shuts  itself  up 
at  the  touch  of  a  raindrop. 

But  she  did  not  stay  to  look  through  a  crev- 
ice ;  she  went  straight  to  her  little  narrow  bed, 
and  told  her  beads  and  prayed,  and  slept  till  the 


3O  A   P-ROVENCE   ROSE. 

cock  crew  in  a  stable  near  and  the  summer  day- 
break came. 

She  might  have  been  in  a  chamber  all  mirror 
and  velvet  and  azure  and  gold  in  any  one  of  the 
ten  thousand  places  of  pleasure,  and  been  lean- 
ing over  gilded  balconies  under  the  lime  leaves, 
tossing  up  little  paper  balloons  in  the  air  for 
gay  wagers  of  love  and  wine  and  jewels.  Pleas- 
ure had  asked  her  more  than  once  to  come 
down  from  her  attic  and  go  with  its  crowds ; 
for  she  was  fair  of  feature  and  lithe  of  limb, 
though  only  a  work-girl  of  Paris.  And  she 
would  not,  but  slept  here  under  the  eaves,  as 
the  swallows  did. 

"We  have  not  seen  enough,  little  rose,  you 
and  I,"  she  would  say  to  me  with  a  smile  and  a 
sigh.  "  But  it  is  better  to  be  a  little  pale,  and 
live  a  little  in  the  dark,  and  be  a  little  cramped 
in  a  garret  window,  than  to  live  grand  in  the 
sun  for  a  moment,  and  the  next  to  be  tossed 
away  in  a  gutter.  And  one  can  be  so  happy 
anyhow  —  almost  anyhow  !-- when  one  is 
young.  If  I  could  only  see  a  very  little  piece 
more  of  the  sky,  and  get  every  Sunday  out  to 
the  dear  woods,  and  live  one  floor  lower,  so 
that  the  winters  were  riot  quite  so  cold  and  the 
summers  not  quite  so  hot,  and  find  a  little  more 


A    PROVENCE    ROSE.  31 

time  to  go  to  mass  in  the  cathedral,  and  be  abk 
to  buy  a  pretty  blue-and-white  home  of  por- 
celain for  you,  I  should  ask  nothing  more  of  the 
blessed  Mary — nothing  more  upon  earth." 

She  had  had  the  same  simple  bead-roll  of  in- 
nocent wishes  ever  since  the  first  hour  that  she 
had  raised  me  from  the  dust  of  the  street ;  and 
it  would,  I  doubt  not,  have  remained  her  only 
one  all  the  years  of  her  life,  till  she  should  have 
glided  down  into  a  serene  and  cheerful  old  age 
of  poverty  and  labor  under  that  very  same  roof, 
without  the  blessed  Mary  ever  deigning  to 
harken  or  answer.  Would  have  done  so  if  the 
painter  Rene  could  have  seen  the  stars,  and 
so  had  not  been  driven  to  look  instead  at  the 
glow-worm  through  my  leaves. 

But  after  that  night  on  which  she  shut  to  the 
lattice  so  suddenly,  I  think  the  bead-roll  length- 
ened —  lengthened,  though  for  some  time  the 
addition  to  it  was  written  on  her  heart  in  a 
mystical  language  which  she  did  not  try  to 
translate  even  to  herself —  I  suppose  fearing  its 
meaning. 

Rene  made  approaches  to  his  neighbor's 
friendship  soon  after  that  night.  He  was  but 
an  art  student,  the  son  of  a  poor  mountaineer, 
and  with  scarce  a  thing  he  could  call  his  own 


32  A    PROVENCE   ROSE. 

except  an  easel  of  deal,  a  few  plaster  casts,  and 
a  bed  of  straw.  She  was  but  a  working-girl, 
born  of  Breton  peasants,  and  owning  as  her  sole 
treasures  two  silver  ear-rings  and  a  \vhite  rose. 

But  for  all  that,  no  courtship  could  have  been 
more  reverential  on  the  one  side  or  fuller  of 
modest  grace  on  the  other  if  the  scene  of  it  had 
been  a  palace  of  princes  or  a  chateau  of  the 
nobles. 

He  spoke  very  little. 

The  vine  had  said  that  at  the  club  round  the 
corner  he  was  very  eloquent,  with  all  the  im- 
passioned and  fierce  eloquence  common  to  men 
of  the  south.  But  with  Lili  he  was  almost 
mute.  The  vine,  who  knew  human  nature  well 
—  as  vines  always  do,  since  their  juices  unlock 
the  secret  thoughts  of  men  and  bring  to  day- 
light their  darkest  passions  —  the  vine  said  that 
such  silence  in  one  by  nature  eloquent  showed 
the  force  of  his  love  and  its  delicacy. 

This  may  be  so  :  I  hardly  know.  My  lover 
the  wind,  when  he  is  amorous,  is  loud  ;  but  then 
it  is  true  his  loves  are  not  often  very  constant. 

Rene  chiefly  wooed  her  by  gentle  service. 
He  brought  her  little  lovely  wild  flowers,  for 
which  he  ransacked  the  woods  of  St.  Germains 
and  Meudon.  He  carried  the  billets  of  her  fire- 


A   PROVENCE   ROSE.  33 

wood  up  the  seven  long,  twisting,  dirty  flights 
of  stairs.  He  fought  for  her  with  the  wicked 
old  porteress  at  the  door  downstairs.  He 
played  to  her  in  the  gray  of  the  evening  on  a 
quaint,  simple  flute,  a  relic  of  his  boyhood,  the 
sad,  wild,  touching  airs  of  his  own  southern 
mountains  —  played  at  his  open  window  while 
the  lamps  burned  through  the  dusk,  till  the 
people  listened  at  their  doors  and  casements 
and  gathered  in  groups  in  the  passage  below, 
and  said  to  one  another,  "How  clever  he  is !  — 
and  he  starves." 

He  did  starve  very  often,  or  at  least  he  had 
to  teach  himself  to  keep  down  hunger  with  a 
morsel  of  black  chaff-bread  and  a  stray  roll  of 
tobacco.  And  yet  I  could  see  that  he  had  be- 
come happy. 

Lili  never  asked  him  within  her  door.  All 
the  words  they  exchanged  were  from  their  open 
lattices,  with  the  space  of  the  roadway  between 
them. 

I  heard  every  syllable  they  spoke,  and  they 
were  on  the  one  side  most  innocent  and  on  the 
other  most  reverential.  Ay,  though  you  may 
not  believe  it — you  who  know  the  people  of 
Paris  from  the  travesties  of  theatres  and  the 
slanders  of  salons. 


34  A   PROVENCE   ROSE. 

And  all  this  time  secretly  he  worked  on  at 
her  portrait.  He  worked  out  of  my  sight  and 
hers,  in  the  inner  part  of  his  garret,  but  the 
swallows  saw  and  told  me.  There  are  never 
any  secrets  between  birds  and  flowers. 

We  used  to  live  in  Paradise  together,  and  we 
love  one  another  as  exiles  do ;  and  we  hold  in 
our  cups  the  raindrops  to  slake  the  thirst  of  the 
birds,  and  the  birds  in  return  bring  to  us  from 
many  lands  and  over  many  waters  tidings  of 
those  lost  ones  who  have  been  torn  from  us  to 
strike  the  roots  of  our  race  in  far-off  soils  and 
under  distant  suns. 

Late  in  the  summer  of  the  year,  one  won- 
derful fete-day,  Lili  did  for  once  get  out  to 
the  woods,  the  old  kindly  green  woods  of  Vin- 
cennes. 

A  neighbor  on  a  lower  floor,  a  woman  who 
made  poor,  scentless,  senseless,  miserable  imita- 
tions of  all  my  race  in  paper,  sat  with  the  old 
bedridden  grandmother  while  Lili  took  her 
holiday  —  so  rare  in  her  life,  though  she  was 
one  of  the  motes  in  the  bright  champagne  of  the 
dancing  air  of  Paris.  I  missed  her  sorely  on 
each  of  those  few  sparse  days  of  her  absence, 
but  for  her  I  rejoiced. 

"  Je  reste:  tu  'fen  vas,"    says  the  rose  to  the 


A    PROVENCE   ROSE.  35 

butterfly  in  the  poem ;  and  I  said  so  in  my 
thoughts  to  her. 

She  went  to  the  broad  level  grass,  to  the 
golden  fields  of  the  sunshine,  to  the  sound  of 
the  bees  murmuring  over  the  wild  purple 
thyme,  to  the  sight  of  the  great  snowy  clouds 
slowly  sailing  over  the  sweet  blue  freedom  of 
heaven  —  to  all  the  things  of  my  birthright 
and  my  deathless  remembrance  —  all  that  no 
woman  can  love  as  a  rose  can  love  them. 

But  I  was  not  jealous ;  nay,  not  though  she 
had  cramped  me  in  a  little  earth-bound  cell  of 
clay.  I  envied  wistfully  indeed,  as  I  envied  the 
swallows  their  wings  which  cleft  the  air,  asking 
no  man's  leave  for  their  liberty.  But  I  would 
not  have  maimed  a  swallow's  pinion  had  I  had 
the  power,  and  I  would  not  have  abridged  an 
hour  of  Lili's  freedom.  Flowers  are  like  your 
poets:  they  give  ungrudgingly,  and,  like  all 
lavish  givers,  are  seldom  recompensed  in  kind. 

We  cast  all  our  world  of  blossom,  all  our 
treasury  of  fragrance,  at  the  feet  of  the  one  we 
love ;  and  then,  having  spent  ourselves  in  that 
too  abundant  sacrifice,  you  cry,  "  A  yellow, 
faded  thing!  — to  the  dust-hole  with  it!  "  and 
root  us  up  violently  and  fling  us  to  rot  with  the 
refuse  and  offal ;  not  remembering  the  days 


36  A   PROVENCE   ROSE. 

when  our  burden  of  beauty  made  sunlight  in 
your  darkest  places,  and  brought  the  odors  of  a 
lost  paradise  to  breathe  over  your  bed  of  fever. 

Well,  there  is  one  consolation.  Just  so  like- 
wise do  you  deal  with  your  human  wonder- 
flower  of  genius. 

Lili  went  for  her  day  in  the  green  midsummer 
world — she  and  a  little  blithe,  happy-hearted 
group  of  young  work-people — and  I  stayed  in 
the  garret  window,  hot  and  thirsty,  and  droop- 
ing and  pale,  choked  by  the  dust  that  drifted 
up  from  the  pavement,  and  hearing  little  all 
day  long  save  the  quarrels  of  the  sparrows  and 
the  whir  of  the  engine  wheels  in  a  baking- 
house  close  at  hand. 

For  it  was  some  great  day  or  other,  when  all 
Paris  was  out  en  fete,  and  every  one  was  away 
from  his  or  her  home,  except  such  people  as 
the  old  bedridden  woman  and  the  cripple  who 
watched  her.  So,  at  least,  the  white  roof- 
pigeons  told  me,  who  flew  where  they  listed, 
and  saw  the  whole  splendid  city  beneath  them 
—  saw  all  its  glistening  of  arms  and  its  sheen 
of  palace  roofs,  all  its  gilded  domes  and  its 
white,  wide  squares,  all  its  crowds,  many-hued 
as  a  field  of  tulips,  and  its  flashing  eagles  golden 
as  the  sun. 


A    PROVENCE   ROSE.  37 

When  I  had  been  alone  two  hours,  and  whilst 
the  old  building  was  silent  and  empty,  there 
came  across  the  street  from  his  own  dwelling- 
place  the  artist  Rene,  with  a  parcel  beneath  his 
arm. 

He  came  up  the  stairs  with  a  light,  noiseless 
step,  and  pushed  open  the  door  of  our  attic. 
He  paused  on  the  threshold  a  moment,  with  the 
sort  of  reverent,  hushed  look  on  his  face  that 
I  had  seen  on  the  faces  of  one  or  two  swarthy, 
bearded,  scarred  soldiers  as  they  paused  before 
the  picinas  at  the  door  of  the  little  chapel  which 
stood  in  my  sight  on  the  other  side  of  our 
street. 

Then  he  entered,  placed  that  which  he  carried 
on  a  wooden  chair  fronting  the  light,  uncovered 
it,  and  went  quietly  out  again,  without  the 
women  in  the  inner  closet  hearing  him. 

What  he  had  brought  was  the  canvas  I  had 
seen  grow  under  his  hand,  the  painting  of  me 
and  the  lamp  and  Lili.  I  do  not  doubt  how  he 
had  done  it ;  it  was  surely  the  little  attic  win- 
dow, homely  and  true  in  likeness,  and  yet  he  had 
glorified  us  all,  and  so  framed  in  my  leaves  and 
my  white  flowers,  the  low  oil  flame  and  the  fair 
head  of  my  mistress,  that  there  was  that  in  the 
little  picture  which  made  me  tremble  and  yet 


38  A   PROVENCE   ROSE. 

be  glad.  On  a  slender  slip  of  paper  attached 
to  it  there  was  written,  "  //  ;/'j/  a  pas  de  nuit 
sans  etoile." 

Of  him  I  saw  no  more.  The  picture  kept 
me  silent  confpany  all  the  day. 

At  evening  Lili  came.  It  was  late.  She 
brought  with  her  a  sweet,  cool  perfume  of  dewy 
mosses  and  fresh  leaves  and  strawberry  plants 
—  sweet  as  honey.  She  came  in  with  a  dark, 
dreamy  brilliance  in  her  eyes  and  long  coils  of 
foliage  in  her  hands. 

She  brought  to  the  canary  chickweed  and  a 
leaf  of  lettuce.  She  kissed  me  and  laid  wet 
mosses  on  my  parching  roots,  and  fanned  me 
with  the  breath  of  her  fresh  lips.  She  took  to 
the  old  women  within  a  huge  cabbage  leaf  full 
of  cherries,  having,  I  doubt  not,  gone  herself 
without  in  order  to  bring  the  ruddy  fruit  to 
them. 

She  had  been  happy,  but  she  was  very  quiet. 
To  those  who  love  the  country  as  she  and  I 
did,  and,  thus  loving  it,  have  to  dwell  in  cities, 
there  is  as  much  of  pain,  perhaps,  as  of  pleasure 
in  a  fleeting  glimpse  of  the  lost  heaven. 

She  was  tired,  and  sat  for  a  while,  and  did 
not  see  the  painting,  for  it  was  dusk.  She  only 
saw  it  when  she  rose  and  turned  to  light 


A   PROVENCE   ROSE. 


39 


the  lamp ;  then,  with  a  little  shrill  cry,  she 
fell  on  her  knees  before  it  in  her  wonder  and 
her  awe,  and  laughed  and  sobbed  a  little,  and 
then  was  still  again,  looking  at  this  likeness  of 
herself. 

The  written  words  took  her  long  to  spell  out, 
for  she  could  scarcely  read,  but  when  she  had 


mastered  them,  her  head  sank  on  her  breast 
with  a  flush  and  a  smile,  like  the  glow  of  the 
dawn  over  Provence,  I  thought. 

She  knew  whence  it  came,  no  doubt,  though 


40  A   PROVENCE   ROSE. 

there  were  many  artists  and  students  of  art  in 
that  street. 

But  then  there  was  only  one  who  had  watched 
her  night  after  night  as  men  watched  the  stars 
of  old  to  read  their  fates  in  the  heavens. 

Lili  was  only  a  young  ouvriere,  she  was  only 
a  girl  of  the  people :  she  had  quick  emotions 
and  innocent  impulses ;  she  had  led  her  life 
straightly  because  it  was  her  nature,  as  it  is 
of  the  lilies  —  her  namesakes,  my  cousins — to 
grow  straight  to  the  light,  pure  and  spotless. 
But  she  was  of  the  populace ;  she  was  frank, 
fearless,  and  strong,  despite  all  her  dreams.  She 
was  glad,  and  she  sought  not  to  hide  it.  With 
a  gracious  impulse  of  gratitude  she  turned  to 
the  lattice  and  leaned  past  me,  and  looked  for 
my  neighbor. 

He  was  there  in  the  gloom ;  he  strove  not 
to  be  seen,  but  a  stray  ray  from  a  lamp  at  the 
vintner's  gleamed  on  his  handsome  dark  face, 
lean  and  pallid  and  yearning  and  sad,  but  full 
of  force  and  of  soul  like  a  head  of  Rembrandt's. 
Lili  stretched  her  hands  to  him  with  a  noble, 
candid  gesture  and  a  sweet,  tremulous  laugh : 
"  What  you  have  given  me  !  —  it  is  you  ?  —  it 
is  you  ?  " 

"Mademoiselle     forgives?"    he     murmured, 


A   PROVENCE   ROSE.  4! 

leaning  as  far  out  as  the  gable  would  per- 
mit. The  street  was  still  deserted,  and  very 
quiet.  The  theatres  were  all  open  to  the 
people  that  night  free,  and  bursts  of  music 
from  many  quarters  rolled  in  through  the  sultry 
darkness. 

Lili  colored  over  all  her  fair,  pale  face,  even 
as  I  have  seen  my  sisters'  white  breasts  glow  to 
a  wondrous,  wavering  warmth  as  the  sun  of  the 
west  kissed  them.  She  drew  her  breath  with  a 
quick  sigh.  She  did  not  answer  him  in  words, 
but  with  a  sudden  movement  of  exquisite  elo- 
quence she  broke  from  me  my  fairest  and  my 
last-born  blossom  and  threw  it  from  her  lattice 
into  his. 

Then,  as  he  caught  it,  she  closed  the  lattice 
with  a  swift,  trembling  hand,  and  left  the  cham- 
ber dark,  and  fled  to  the  little  sleeping-closet 
where  her  crucifix  and  her  mother's  rosary  hung 
together  above  her  bed. 

As  for  me,  I  was  left  bereaved  and  bleeding. 
The  dew  which  waters  the  growth  of  your 
human  love  is  usually  the  tears  or  blood  of 
some  martyred  life. 

I  loved  Lili. 

I  prayed,  as  my  torn  stem  quivered  and  my 
fairest  begotten  sank  to  her  death  in  the  night 


42  A   PROVENCE   ROSE. 

and  the  silence,  that  I  might  be  the  first  and 
the  last  to  suffer  from  the  human  love  born  that 
night. 

I,  a  rose  —  Love's  flower. 


A   PROVENCE   ROSE. 


43 


PART  SECOND. 


Now,  before  that  summer  was  gone,  these 
two  were  betrothed  to  one  another,  and  my 
little  fair  dead  daughter,  all  faded  and  scentless 
though  her  half-opened  leaves  were,  remained 
always  on  Rene's  heart  as  a  tender  and  treas- 
ured relic. 

They  were  betrothed,  I  say  —  not  wedded, 
for  they  were  so  terribly  poor. 

Many  a  day  he,  I  think,  had  not  so  much  as 
a  crust  to  eat ;  and  there  passed  many  weeks 
when  the  works  on  his  canvas  stood  unfinished 
because  he  had  not  wherewithal  to  buy  the  oils 
and  the  colors  to  finish  them. 


44  A   PROVENCE   ROSE. 

Rene  was  frightfully  poor,  indeed  ;  but  then, 
being  an  artist  and  a  poet,  and  the  lover  of 
a  fair  and  noble  woman,  and  a  dreamer  of 
dreams,  and  a  man  God-gifted,  he  was  no 
longer  wretched.  For  the  life  of  a  painter  is 
beautiful  when  he  is  still  young,  and  loves  truly, 
and  has  a  genius  in  him  stronger  than  all  ca- 
lamity, and  hears  a  voice  in  which  he  believes 
say  always  in  his  ear:  "Fear  nothing.  Men 
must  believe  as  I  do  in  thee,  one  day.  And 
meanwhile  we  can  wait !  "  And  a  painter  in 
Paris,  even  though  he  starve  on  a  few  sous  a 
day,  can  have  so  much  that  is  lovely  and  full 
of  picturesque  charm  in  his  daily  pursuits :  the 
long,  wondrous  galleries  full  of  the  arts  he 
adores;  the  "  realite  de  rideal"  around  him  in 
that  perfect  world ;  the  slow,  sweet,  studious 
hours  in  the  calm  wherein  all  that  is  great 
in  humanity  alone  survives;  the  trance  —  half 
adoration,  half  aspiration,  at  once  desire  and 
despair — before  the  face  of  the  Mona  Lisa; 
then,  without,  the  streets  so  glad  and  so  gay  in 
the  sweet,  living  sunshine ;  the  quiver  of  green 
leaves  among  gilded  balconies ;  the  groups  at 
every  turn  about  the  doors  ;  the  glow  of  color  in 
market-place  and  peopled  square ;  the  quaint 
gray  piles  in  old  historic  ways ;  the  stones,  from 


A   PROVENCE   ROSE.  45 

every  one  of  which  some  voice  from  the  imper- 
ishable Past  cries  out;  the  green,  silent  woods, 
the  little  leafy  villages,  the  winding  waters 
garden-girt;  the  forest  heights,  with  the  city 
gleaming  and  golden  in  the  plain; — all  these 
are  his.  With  these  —  and  youth  —  who  shall 
dare  say  he  is  not  rich  —  ay,  though  his  board 
be  empty  and  his  cup  be  dry? 

I  had  not  loved  Paris  —  I,  a  little  imprisoned 
rose,  caged  in  a  clay  pot,  and  seeing  nothing 
but  the  sky-line  of  the  roofs.  But  I  grew  to 
love  it,  hearing  from  Rene  and  from  Lili  of  all 
the  poetry  and  gladness  that  Paris  made  pos- 
sible in  their  young  and  burdened  lives,  and 
which  could  have  been  thus  possible  in,  no 
other  city  of  the  earth. 

City  of  Pleasure  you  have  called  her,  and 
with  truth ;  but  why  not  also  City  of  the 
Poor?  for  that  city,  like  herself,  has  remem- 
bered the  poor  in  her  pleasure,  and  given  to 
them,  no  less  than  to  the  richest,  the  treasure  of 
her  laughing  sunlight,  of  her  melodious  music, 
of  her  gracious  hues,  of  her  million  flowers,  of 
her  shady  leaves,  of  her  divine  ideals. 

O  world  !  when  you  let  Paris  die  you  will  let 
your  last  youth  die  with  her !  Your  rich  will 
mourn  a  paradise  deserted,  but  your  poor  will 


46  A   PROVENCE   ROSE. 

have  need  to  weep  with  tears  of  blood  for  the 
ruin  of  the  sole  Eden  whose  sunlight  sought 
them  in  their  shadow,  whose  music  found  them 
in  their  loneliness,  whose  glad  green  ways  were 
open  to  their  tired  feet,  whose  radiance  smiled 
the  sorrow  from  their  aching  eyes,  and  in  whose 
wildest  errors  and  whose  vainest  dreams  their 
woes  and  needs  were  unforgotten. 

Well,  this  little,  humble  love-idyl,  which 
grew  into  being  in  an  attic,  had  a  tender  grace 
of  its  own ;  and  I  watched  it  with  tenderness, 
and  it  seemed  to  me  fresh  as  the  dews  of  the 
morning  in  the  midst  of  the  hot,  stifling  world. 

They  could  not  marry :  he  had  nothing  but 
famine  for  his  wedding-gift,  and  all  the  little 
that  she  made  was  taken  for  the  food  and  wine 
of  the  bedridden  old  grandam  in  that  religious 
execution  of  a  filial  duty  which  is  so  habitual 
in  the  French  family-life  that  no  one  dreams 
counting  it  as  a  virtue. 

But  they  spent  their  leisure  time  together: 
they  passed  their  rare  holiday  hours  in  each 
other's  society  in  the  woods  which  they  both 
loved  or  in  the  public  galleries  of  art;  and 
when  the  autumn  came  on  apace,  and  they 
could  no  longer  sit  at  their  open  casements,  he 
still  watched  the  gleam  of  her  pale  lamp  as  a 


A   PROVENCE   ROSE.  47 

pilgrim  the  light  of  a  shrine,  and  she,  ere  she 
went  to  her  rest,  would  push  ajar  the  closed 
shutter  and  put  her  pretty  fair  head  into  the 
darkling  night,  and  waft  him  a  gentle  good- 
night, and  then  go  and  kneel  down  by  her  bed 
and  pray  for  him  and  his  future  before  the 
cross  which  had  been  her  dead  mother's. 

On  that  bright  summer  a  hard  winter  fol- 
lowed. The  poor  suffered  very  much ;  and  I 
in  the  closed  lattice  knew  scarcely  which  was 
the  worse  —  the  icy,  shivering  chills  of  the 
snow-burdened  air,  or  the  close,  noxious  suf- 
focation of  the  stove. 

I  was  very  sickly  and  ill,  and  cared  little  for 
my  life  during  that  bitter  cold  weather,  when 
the  panes  of  the  lattice  were  all  blocked  from 
week's  end  to  week's  end  with  the  solid,  silvery 
foliage  of  the  frost. 

Rene  and  Lili  both  suffered  greatly:  he 
could  only  keep  warmth  in  his  veins  by  the 
stoves  of  the  public  libraries,  and  she  lost  her 
work  in  the  box  trade  after  the  New  Year  fairs, 
and  had  to  eke  out  as  best  she  might  the  few 
francs  she  had  been  able  to  lay  back  in  the 
old  brown  pipkin  in  the  closet.  She  had,  more- 
over, to  sell  most  of  the  little  things  in  her  gar- 
ret; her  own  mattress  went,  though  she  kept 


48  A    PROVENCE   ROSE. 

the  bed  under  her  grandmother.  But  there 
were  two  things  she  would  not  sell,  though  for 
both  was  she  offered  money;  they  were  her 
mother's  reliques  and  myself. 

She  would  not,  I  am  sure,  have  sold  the  pic- 
ture, either.  But  for  that  no  one  offered  her  a 
centime. 

One  day,  as  the  last  of  the  winter  solstice  was 
passing  away,  the  old  woman  died. 

Lili  wept  for  her  sincere  and  tender  tears, 
though  never  in  my  time,  nor  in  any  other,  I 
believe,  had  the  poor  old  querulous,  paralytic 
sufferer  rewarded  her  with  anything  except 
lamentation  and  peevish  discontent. 

"Now  you  will  come  to  me?  "  murmured  her 
lover,  when  they  had  returned  from  laying  the 
old  dead  peasant  in  the  quarter  of  the  poor. 

Lili  drooped  her  head  softly  upon  his  breast. 

"  If  you  wish  it !  "  she  whispered,  with  a  whis- 
per as  soft  as  the  first  low  breath  of  summer. 

If  he  wished  it ! 

A  gleam  of  pale  gold  sunshine  shone  through 
the  dulled  panes  upon  my  feeble  branches; 
a  little  timid  fly  crept  out  and  spread  its  wings ; 
the  bells  of  the  church  rang  an  angelus;  a  child 
laughed  in  the  street  below;  there  came  a  smile 
of  greenness  spreading  over  the  boughs  of  leaf- 


A   PROVENCE   ROSE.  49 

less  trees ;  my  lover,  the  wind,  returned  from 
the  south,  fresh  from  desert  and  ocean,  with  the 
scent  of  the  spice  groves  and  palm  aisles  of  the 
East  in  his  breath,  and,  softly  unclosing  my  lat- 
tice, murmured  to  me  :  "  Didst  thou  think  I  was 
faithless?  See,  I  come  with  the  spring!  " 

So,  though  I  was  captive  and  they  two  were 
poor,  yet  we  three  were  all  happy ;  for  love 
and  a  new  year  of  promise  were  with  us. 

I  bore  a  little  snowy  blossom  (sister  to  the 
one  which  slept  lifeless  on  Rene's  heart)  that 
spring,  whilst  yet  the  swallows  were  not  back 
from  the  African  gardens,  and  the  first  violets 
were  carried  in  millions  through  the  streets  — 
the  only  innocent  imperialists  that  the  world 
has  ever  seen. 

That  little  winter-begotten  darling  of  mine  was 
to  be  Lili's  nuptial-flower.  She  took  it  so  ten- 
derly from  me  that  it  hardly  seemed  like  its  death. 

"  My  little  dear  rose,  who  blossoms  for  me, 
though  I  can  only  cage  her  in  clay,  and  only 
let  her  see  the  sun's  rays  between  the  stacks  of 
the  chimneys !  "  she  said  softly  over  me  as  she 
kissed  me  ;  and  when  she  said  that,  could  I  any 
more  grieve  for  Provence? 

"  What  do  they  wed  upon,  those  two?  "  said 
the  old  vine  to  me. 


5O  A   PROVENCE    ROSE. 

And  I  answered  him,  "  Hope  and  dreams." 

"Will  those  bake  bread  and  feed  babes?" 
said  the  vine,  as  he  shook  his  wrinkled  tendrils 
despondently  in  the  March  air. 

We  did  not  ask  in  the  attic. 

Summer  was  nigh  at  hand,  and  we  loved  one 
another. 

Rene  had  come  to  us — we  had  not  gone  to 
him.  For  our  garret  was  on  the  sunny,  his  on 
the  dark,  side  of  the  street,  and  Lili  feared  the 
gloom  for  me  and  the  bird ;  and  she  could  not 
bring  herself  to  leave  that  old  red-leaved 
creeper  who  had  wound  himself  so  close  about 
the  rainpipe  and  the  roof,  and  who  could  not 
have  been  dislodged  without  being  slain. 

With  the  Mardi  Gras  her  trade  had  returned 
to  her.  Rene,  unable  to  prosecute  his  grand 
works,  took  many  of  the  little  boxes  in  his  own 
hands,  and  wrought  on  them  with  all  the  name- 
less mystical  charm  and  the  exquisite  grace  of 
touch  which  belong  to  the  man  who  is  by 
nature  a  great  artist.  The  little  trade  could 
not  at  its  best  price  bring  much,  but  it  brought 
bread  ;  and  we  were  happy. 

While  he  worked  at  the  box  lids  she  had 
leisure  for  her  household  labors ;  when  these 
were  done  she  would  draw  out  her  mother's  old 


A   PROVENCE   ROSE.  51 

Breton  distaff,  and  would  sit  and  spin.  When 
twilight  fell  they  would  go  forth  together  to 
dream  under  the  dewy  avenues  and  the  glisten- 
ing stars,  or  as  often  would  wait  within  whilst 
he  played  on  his  mountain  flute  to  the  people 
at  the  doorways  in  the  street  below. 

"Is  it  better  to  go  out  and  see  the  stars  and 
the  leaves  ourselves,  or  to  stay  indoors  and  make 
all  these  forget  the  misfortune  of  not  seeing 
them?"  said  Lili  on  one  of  those  evenings  when 
the  warmth  and  the  sunset  almost  allured  her  to 
draw  the  flute  from  her  husband's  hands  and  give 
him  his  hat  instead ;  and  then  she  looked  down 
into  the  narrow  road,  at  the  opposite  houses,  at 
the  sewing-girls  stitching  by  their  little  win- 
dows, at  the  pale  students  studying  their  sickly 
lore  with  scalpel  and  with  skeleton,  at  the  hot, 
dusty  little  children  at  play  on  the  asphalt 
sidewalk,  at  the  sorrowful,  darkened  casements 
behind  which  she  knew  beds  of  sickness  or  of 
paralyzed  old  age  were  hidden  —  looked  at  all 
this  from  behind  my  blossoms,  and  then  gave 
up  the  open  air  and  the  evening  stroll  that 
were  so  dear  a  pastime  to  her,  and  whispered 
to  Rene,  "  Play,  or  they  will  be  disappointed." 

And  he  played,  instead  of  going  to  the  de- 
bating-club  in  the  room  round  the  corner. 


52  A   PROVENCE   ROSE. 

"  He  has  ceased  to  be  a  patriot,"  grumbled 
the  old  vine.  "  It  is  always  so  with  every  man 
when  once  he  has  loved  a  woman  !  " 

Myself,  I  could  not  see  that  there  was  less 
patriotism  in  breathing  the  poetry  of  sound 
into  the  ears  of  his  neighbors  than  in  rousing 
the  passions  of  hell  in  the  breasts  of  his 
brethren. 

But  perhaps  this  was  my  ignorance :  I  be- 
lieve that  of  late  years  people  have  grown  to 
hold  that  the  only  pure  patriotism  is,  and  ought 
to  be,  evinced  in  the  most  intense  and  the  most 
brutalized  form  of  one  passion,  —  "Envy,  eldest- 
born  of  hell." 

So  these  two  did  some  good,  and  were  happy, 
though  more  than  once  it  chanced  to  them  to 
have  to  go  a  whole  day  without  tasting  food  of 
any  sort. 

I  have  said  that  Rene  had  genius,  —  a  gen- 
ius bold,  true,  impassioned,  masterful, —  such  a 
genius  as  colors  the  smallest  trifles  that  it 
touches.  Rene  could  no  more  help  putting  an 
ideal  grace  into  those  little  sweetmeat  boxes  — 
which  sold  at  their  very  highest,  in  the  booths 
of  the  fairs,  at  fifty  centimes  apiece  —  than  we, 
the  roses,  can  help  being  fragrant  and  fair. 

Genius  has  a  way  of  casting  its  pearls  in  the 


A  PROVENCE  ROSE.  53 

dust  as  we  scatter  our  fragrance  to  every  breeze 
that  blows.  Now  and  then  the  pearl  is  caught 
and  treasured,  as  now  and  then  some  solitary 
creature  pauses  to  smell  the  sweetness  of  the 
air  in  which  we  grow,  and  thanks  the  God  who 
made  us. 

But  as  ninety-nine  roses  bloom  unthanked 
for  one  that  is  thus  remembered,  so  ninety-nine 
of  the  pearls  of  genius  are  trodden  to  pieces 
for  one  that  is  set  on  high  and  crowned  with 
honor. 

In  the  twilight  of  a  dull  day  a  little,  feeble, 
brown  old  man  climbed  the  staircase  and  en- 
tered our  attic  with  shambling  step. 

We  had  no  strangers  to  visit  us :  who  visits 
the  poor?  We  thought  he  was  an  enemy:  the 
poor  always  do  think  so,  being  so  little  used  to 
strangers. 

Rene  drew  himself  erect,  and  strove  to  hide 
the  poverty  of  his  garments,  standing  by  his 
easel.  Lili  came  to  me  and  played  with  my 
leaves  in  her  tender,  caressing  fashion. 

"You  painted  this,  M.  Rene  Claude?"  asked 
the  little  brown  old  man.  He  held  in  his  hand 
one  of  the  bonbon  boxes,  the  prettiest  of  them 
all,  with  a  tambourine-girl  dancing  in  a  wreath 
of  Provence  roses.  Rene  had  copied  me  with 


54  A   PROVENCE   ROSE. 

loving  fidelity  in  the  flowers,  and  with  a  sigh 
had  murmured  as  he  cast  the  box  aside  when 
finished :  "  That  ought  to  fetch  at  least  a 
franc  !  "  But  he  got  no  more  than  the  usual 
two  sous  for  it. 

The  little  man  sat  down  on  the  chair  which 
Lili  placed  for  him. 

"  So  they  told  me  where  I  bought  this.  It 
was  at  a  booth  at  St.  Cloud.  Do  you  know 
that  it  is  charming?  " 

Rene  smiled  a  little  sadly ;  Lili  flushed  with 
joy.  It  was  the  first  praise  which  she  had  ever 
heard  given  to  him. 

"  You  have  a  great  talent,"  pursued  the  little 
man. 

Rene  bowed  his  handsome,  haggard  face  — 
his  mouth  quivered  a  very  little :  for  the  first 
time  Hope  entered  into  him. 

"Genius,  indeed,"  said  the  stranger;  and  he 
sauntered  a  little  about  and  looked  at  the  can- 
vases, and  wondered  and  praised,  and  said  not 
very  much,  but  said  that  little  so  well  and  so 
judiciously  that  it  was  easy  to  see  he  was  no 
mean  judge  of  art,  and  possibly  no  slender 
patron  of  it. 

As  Lili  stood  by  me  I  saw  her  color  come 
and  go  and  her  breast  heave.  I  too  trembled 


A   PROVENCE   ROSE.  55 

in    all    my    leaves :   were    recognition    and    the 
world's  homage  coming  to  Rene  at  last? 

"  And  I  have  been  so  afraid  always  that  I 
had  injured,  burdened  him,  clogged  his  strength 
in  that  endless  strife ! "  she  murmured  below 
her  breath.  "  O  dear  little  rose !  if  only  the 
world  can  but  know  his  greatness !  " 

Meanwhile  the  old  man  looked  through  the 
sketches  and  studies  with  which  the  room  was 
strewed.  "You  do  not  finish  your  things?  "  he 
said  abruptly. 

Rene  flushed  darkly.  "  Oil  pictures  cost 
money,"  he  said  briefly,  "  and  —  I  am  very 
poor." 

Though  a  peasant's  son,  he  was  very  proud : 
the  utterance  must  have  cost  him  much. 

The  stranger  took  snuff.  "You  are  a  man 
of  singular  genius,"  he  said  simply.  "  You 
only  want  to  be  known  to  get  the  prices  of 
Meissonier." 

Meissonier !  — the  Rothschild  of  the  studios, 
the  artist  whose  six- inch  canvas  would  bring 
the  gold  value  of  a  Raphael  or  a  Titian  ! 

Lili,  breathing  fast,  and  white  as  death  with 
ecstasy,  made  the  sign  of  the  cross  on  her 
breast ;  the  delicate  brown  hand  of  Rene  shook 
where  it  leaned  on  his  easel. 


56  A  PROVENCE  ROSE. 

They  were  both  silent — silent  from  the  in- 
tensity of  their  hope. 

"Do  you  know  who  I  am?"  the  old  man 
pursued  with  a  cordial  smile. 

"  I  have  not  that  honor,"  murmured  Rene. 

The  stranger,  taking  his  snuff  out  of  a  gold 
box,  named  a  name  at  which  the  painter  started. 
It  was  that  of  one  of  the  greatest  art  dealers  in 
the  whole  of  Europe,  —  one  who  at  a  word 
could  make  or  mar  an  artist's  reputation, —  one 
whose  accuracy  of  judgment  was  considered 
infallible  by  all  connoisseurs,  and  the  passport 
to  whose  galleries  was  to  any  unknown  paint- 
ing a  certain  passport  also  to  the  fame  of  men. 

"  You  are  a  man  of  singular  genius,"  repeated 
the  great  purchaser,  taking  his  snuff  in  the  mid- 
dle of  the  little  bare  chamber.  "  It  is  curious 
—  one  always  finds  genius  either  in  a  cellar  or 
in  an  attic :  it  never,  by  any  chance,  is  to  be 
discovered  midway  on  the  stairs — never  in  the 
mezzo  terso!  But  to  the  point.  You  have 
great  delicacy  of  touch,  striking  originality,  a 
wonderful  purity  yet  bloom  in  your  color,  and 
an  exquisite  finish  of  minutiae,  without  any  weak- 
ness, —  a  combination  rare,  very  rare.  That 
girl  yonder,  feeding  white  pigeons  on  the  leads 
of  a  roof,  with  an  atom  of  blue  sky,  and  a  few 


A   PROVENCE   ROSE.  57 

vine  leaves  straying  over  the  parapet — that  is 
perfectly  conceived.  Finished  it  must  be.  So 
must  that  little  study  of  the  beggar-boy  looking 
through  the  gilded  gates  into  the  rose-gardens 
—  it  is  charming,  charming.  Your  price  for 
those?" 

Rene's  colorless,  worn  young  face  colored  to 
the  brows.  "  Monsieur  is  too  good,"  he  mut- 
tered brokenly.  "  A  nameless  artist  has  no 
price,  except  — 

"  Honor,"  murmured  Lili  as  she  moved  for- 
ward with  throbbing  heart  and  dim  eyes.  "Ah, 
monsieur,  give  him  a  name  in  Paris !  We  want 
nothing  else  —  nothing  else  !  " 

"  Poor  fools  !  "  said  the  dealer  to  his  snuff-box. 
I  heard  him  —  they  did  not. 

"  Madame,"  he  answered  aloud,  "  Paris  her- 
self will  give  him  that  the  first  day  his  first  can- 
vas hangs  in  my  galleries.  Meanwhile,  I  must 
in  honesty  be  permitted  to  add  something  more. 
For  each  of  those  little  canvases,  the  girl  on  the 
roof  and  the  boy  at  the  gate,  I  will  give  you  now 
two  thousand  francs,  and  two  thousand  more 
when  they  shall  be  completed.  Provided  —  " 

He  paused  and  glanced  musingly  at  Rene. 

Lili  had  turned  away,  and  was  sobbing  for 
very  joy  at  this  undreamed-of  deliverance. 


58  A   PROVENCE   ROSE. 

Rene  stood  quite  still,  with  his  hands  crossed 
on  the  easel  and  his  head  bent  on  his  chest. 
The  room,  I  think,  swam  around  him. 

The  old  man  sauntered  again  a  little  about 
the  place,  looking  here  and  looking  there, 
murmuring  certain  artistic  disquisitions  tech- 
nical and  scientific,  leaving  them  time  to  recover 
from  the  intensity  of  their  emotion. 

What  a  noble  thing  old  age  was,  I  thought, 
living  only  to  give  hope  to  the  young  in  their 
sorrow,  and  to  release  captive  talents  from  the 
prison  of  obscurity  !  We  should  leave  the  little 
room  in  the  roof,  and  dwell  in  some  bright  quar- 
ter where  it  was  all  leaves  and  flowers ;  and 
Rene  would  be  great,  and  go  to  dine  with 
princes  and  drive  a  team  of  belled  horses,  like  a 
famous  painter  who  had  dashed  once  with  his 
splendid  equipage  through  our  narrow  passage  ; 
and  we  should  see  the  sky  always  —  as  much  of 
it  as  ever  we  chose ;  and  Lili  would  have  a  gar- 
den of  her  own,  all  grass  and  foliage  and  falling 
waters,  in  which  I  should  live  in  the  open  air  all 
the  day  long,  and  make  believe  that  I  was  in 
Provence. 

My  dreams  and  my  fancies  were  broken  by  the 
sound  of  the  old  man's  voice  taking  up  the  thread 
of  his  discourse  once  more  in  front  of  Rene. 


A   PROVENCE   ROSE.  59 

"I  will  give  you  four  thousand  francs  each 
for  those  two  little  canvases,"  he  repeated.  "  It 
is  a  mere  pinch  of  dust  to  what  you  will  make 
in  six  months' time  if  —  if — you  hear  me?  — 
your  name  is  brought  before  the  public  of  Paris 
in  my  galleries  and  under  my  auspices.  I  sup- 
pose you  have  heard  something  of  what  I  can 
do,  eh  ?  Well,  all  I  can  do  I  will  do  for  you ; 
for  you  have  a  great  talent,  and  without  intro- 
duction, my  friend,  you  may  as  well  roll  up 
your  pictures  and  burn  them  in  your  stove  to 
save  charcoal.  You  know  that?  " 

Rene  indeed  knew — none  better.  Lili  turned 
on  the  old  man  her  sweet,  frank  Breton  eyes, 
smiling  their  radiant  gratitude  through  ten- 
derest  tears. 

"The  saints  will  reward  you,  monsieur, 
in  a  better  world  than  this,"  she  murmured 
softly. 

The  old  man  took  snuff  a  little  nervously. 
"There  is  one  condition  I  must  make,"  he  said 
with  a  trifling  hesitation  —  "one  only." 

"  Ask  of  my  gratitude  what  you  will,"  an- 
swered Rene  quickly,  while  he  drew  a  deep 
breath  of  relief  and  freedom, — the  breath  of 
one  who  casts  to  the  ground  the  weight  of  a 
deadly  burden. 


60  A   PROVENCE   ROSE. 

"  It  is,  that  you  will  bind  yourself  only  to 
paint  for  me." 

"Certainly!"  Rene  gave  the  assent  with 
eagerness.  Poor  fellow !  it  was  a  novelty  so 
exquisite  to  have  any  one  save  the  rats  to  paint 
for.  It  had  never  dawned  upon  his  thoughts 
that  when  he  stretched  his  hands  out  with  such 
passionate  desire  to  touch  the  hem  of  the  gar- 
ment of  Fortune  and  catch  the  gleam  of  the 
laurels  of  Fame,  he  might  be  in  truth  only  hold- 
ing them  out  to  fresh  fetters. 

"Very  well,"  said  the  old  man  quietly,  and 
he  sat  down  again  and  looked  full  in  Rene's 
face,  and  unfolded  his  views  for  the  artist's  fu- 
ture. 

He  used  many  words,  and  was  slow  and  suave 
in  their  utterance,  and  paused  often  and  long 
to  take  out  his  heavy  gold  box ;  but  he  spoke 
well.  Little  by  little  his  meaning  gleamed  out 
from  the  folds  of  verbiage  in  which  he  skilfully 
enwrapped  it. 

It  was  this. 

The  little  valueless  drawings  on  the  people's 
sweetmeat  boxes  of  gilded  cardboard  had  a 
grace,  a  color,  and  a  beauty  in  them  which  had 
caught,  at  a  fair-booth  in  the  village  of  St. 
Cloud,  the  ever-watchful  eyes  of  the  great 


A   PROVENCE   ROSE.  6 I 

dealer.  He  had  bought  half  a  dozen  of  the 
boxes  for  a  couple  of  francs.  He  had  said, 
"  Here  is  what  I  want."  Wanted  for  what? 
Briefly,  to  produce  Petitot  enamels  and  Frago- 
nard  cabinets  —  genuine  eighteenth -century 
work.  There  was  a  rage  for  it.  Rene  would 
understand? 

Rene's  dark  southern  eyes  lost  a  little  of  their 
new  lustre  of  happiness,  and  grew  troubled  with 
a  sort  of  cloud  of  perplexity.  He  did  not  seem 
to  understand. 

The  old  man  took  more  snuff,  and  used 
phrases  clearer  still. 

There  were  great  collectors  —  dilettanti  of 
houses  imperial  and  royal  and  princely  and 
noble,  of  all  the  grades  of  greatness  —  who 
would  give  any  sum  for  bonbonmeres  and  taba- 
tieres  of  eighteenth-century  work  by  any  one  of 
the  few  famous  masters  of  that  time.  A  gen- 
uine, incontestable  sweetmeat  box  from  the  at- 
eliers of  the  Louis  XIV.  or  Louis  XV.  period 
would  fetch  almost  a  fabulous  sum.  Then  again 
he  paused,  doubtfully. 

Rene  bowed,  and  his  wondering  glance  said 
without  words,  "  I  know  this.  But  I  have  no 
eighteenth-century  work  to  sell  you :  if  I  had, 
should  we  starve  in  an  attic  ?  " 


62  A   PROVENCE   ROSE. 

His  patron  coughed  a  little,  looked  at  Lili, 
then  proceeded  to  explain  yet  further. 

In  Rene's  talent  he  had  discerned  the  hues, 
the  grace,  the  delicacy  yet  brilliancy,  the  vo- 
luptuousness and  the  desinvolteure  of  the  best 
eighteenth-century  work.  Rene  doubtless  did 
other  and  higher  things  which  pleased  himself 
far  more  than  these  airy  trifles.  Well,  let  him 
pursue  the  greater  line  of  art  if  he  chose ;  but 
he,  the  old  man  who  spoke,  could  assure  him 
that  nothing  would  be  so  lucrative  to  him  as 
those  bacchantes  in  wreaths  of  roses  and  young 
tambourine-players  gorge  au  vent  dancing  in  a 
bed  of  violets,  and  beautiful  marquises,  powdered 
and  jewelled,  looking  over  their  fans,  which  he 
had  painted  for  those  poor  little  two-sous  boxes 
of  the  populace,  and  the  like  of  which,  exquis- 
itely finished  on  enamel  or  ivory,  set  in  gold 
and  tortoise-shell  rimmed  with  pearls  and  tur- 
quoises or  opals  and  diamonds,  would  deceive 
the  finest  connoisseur  in  Europe  into  receiving 
them  as  —  whatever  they  might  be  signed  and 
dated. 

If  Rene  would  do  one  or  two  of  these  at  dic- 
tation in  a  year,  not  more,  —  more  would  be 
perilous,  —  paint  and  sign  them  and  produce 
them  with  any  touches  that  might  be  com- 


A   PROVENCE   ROSE.  63 

manded  ;  never  ask  what  became  of  them  when 
finished,  nor  recognize  them  if  hereafter  he 
might  see  them  in  any  illustrious  collection  — 
if  Rene  would  bind  himself  to  do  this,  he,  the 
old  man  who  spoke,  would  buy  his  other  paint- 
ings, place  them  well  in  his  famous  galleries, 
and,  using  all  his  influence,  would  make  him  in 
a  twelvemonth's  time  the  most  celebrated  of 
all  the  young  painters  of  Paris. 

It  was  a  bargain?  Ah,  how  well  it  was,  he 
said,  to  put  the  best  of  one's  powers  into  the 
most  trifling  things  one  did  !  If  that  poor  little 
two-sous  box  had  been  less  lavishly  and  grace- 
fully decorated,  it  would  never  have  arrested 
his  eyes  in  the  bonbon-booth  at  St.  Cloud. 
The  old  man  paused  to  take  snuff  and  receive 
an  answer. 

Rene  stood  motionless. 

Lili  had  sunk  into  a  seat,  and  was  gazing  at 
the  tempter  with  wide-open,  puzzled,  startled 
eyes.  Both  were  silent. 

"It  is  a  bargain?"  said  the  old  man  again. 
"  Understand  me,  M.  Rene  Claude.  You  have 
no  risk,  absolutely  none,  and  you  have  the  cer- 
tainty of  fair  fame  and  fine  fortune  in  the  space 
of  a  few  years.  You  will  be  a  great  man  before 
you  have  a  gray  hair :  that  comes  to  very  few. 


64  A   PROVENCE   ROSE. 

I  shall  not  trouble  you  for  more  than  two  dix- 

•^  -^ 

huitieme  siecle  enamels  in  the  year — perhaps 
for  only  one.  You  can  spend  ten  months  out 
of  the  twelve  on  your  own  canvases,  making 
your  own  name  and  your  own  wealth  as  swiftly 
as  your  ambition  and  impatience  can  desire. 
Madame  here,"  said  the  acute  dealer  with  a 
pleasant  smile  —  "Madame  here  can  have  a 
garden  sloping  on  the  Seine  and  a  glass  house 
of  choicest  flowers  —  which  I  see  are  her  grace- 
ful weakness —  ere  another  rose-season  has  time 
to  come  round,  if  you  choose." 

His  voice  lingered  softly  on  the  three  last 
words. 

The  dew  stood  on  Rene's  forehead,  his  hands 
clenched  on  the  easel. 

"  You  wish  me  —  to  —  paint — forgeries  of  the 
Petitot  enamels?" 

The  old  man  smiled  unmoved  :  "  Chut,  chut ! 

V 

Will  you  paint  me  little  bonbonnieres  on  en- 
amel instead  of  on  cardboard?  That  is  all 
the  question.  I  have  said  where  they  go,  how 
they  are  set :  what  they  are  called  shall  be  my 
affair.  You  know  nothing.  The  only  works  of 
yours  which  you  will  be  concerned  to  acknowl- 
edge will  be  your  own  canvas  pictures.  What 
harm  can  it  do  any  creature?  You  will  gratify 


A   PROVENCE   ROSE.  65 

a  connoisseur  or  two  innocently,  and  you  will 
meanwhile  be  at  leisure  to  follow  the  bent  of 
your  own  genius,  which  otherwise  — " 

He  paused.:  I  heard  the  loud  throbs  of 
Rene's  heart  under  that  cruel  temptation. 

Lili  gazed  at  his  tempter  with  the  same  star- 
tled terror  and  bewilderment  still  dilating  her 
candid  eyes  with  a  woful  pain. 

"  Otherwise,"  pursued  the  old  man  with  mer- 
ciless tranquillity,  "you  will  never  see  me  any 
more,  my  friends.  If  you  try  to  repeat  any 
story  to  my  hindrance,  no  one  will  credit  you. 
I  am  rich,  you  are  poor.  You  have  a  great 
talent :  I  shall  regret  to  see  it  lost,  but  I  shall 
"let  it  die  —  so." 

And  he  trod  very  gently  on  a  little  gnat  that 
crawled  near  his  foot,  and  killed  it. 

A  terrible  agony  gathered  in  the  artist's  face. 

"  O  God  ! "  he  cried  in  his  torture,  and  his 
eyes  went  to  the  canvases  against  the  wall,  and 
then  to  the  face  of  his  wife,  with  an  unutter- 
able, yearning  desire. 

For  them,  for  them,  this  sin  which  tempted 
him  looked  virtue. 

"Do  you  hesitate?"  said  the  merciless  old 
man.  "Pshaw!  whom  do  you  hurt?  You 
give  me  work  as  good  as  that  which  you  imitate, 


66  A   PROVENCE   ROSE. 

and  I  call  it  only  by  a  dead  man's  name :  who 
is  injured?  What  harm  can  there  be  in  humor- 
ing the  fanaticism  of  fashion?  Choose  —  I  am 
in  haste." 

Rene  hid  his  face  with  his  hands,  so  that  he 
should  not  behold  those  dear  creations  of  his 
genius  which  so  cruelly,  so  innocently,  assailed 
him  with  a  temptation  beyond  his  strength. 

"  Choose  for  me — you  !  "  he  muttered  in  his 
agony  to  Lili. 

Lili,  white  as  death,  drew  closer  to  him. 

"  My  Rene,  your  heart  has  chosen,"  she  mur- 
mured through  her  dry,  quivering  lips.  "  You 
cannot  buy  honor  by  fraud." 

Rene  lifted  his  head  and  looked  straight  in 
the  eyes  of  the  man  who  held  the  scales  of  his 
fate,  and  could  weigh  out  for  his  whole  life's 
portion  either  fame  and  fortune,  or  obscurity 
and  famine. 

"  Sir,"  he  said  slowly,  with  a  bitter,  tranquil 
smile  about  his  mouth,  "  my  garret  is  empty, 
but  it  is  clean.  May  I  trouble  you  to  leave  it 
as  you  found  it?  " 

So  they  were  strong  to  the  end,  these  two 
famished  children  of  frivolous  Paris. 

But  when  the  door  had  closed  and  shut  their 
tempter  out,  the  revulsion  came :  they  wept 


A    PROVENCE   ROSE.  67 

those  tears  of  blood  which  come  from  the  hearts' 
depths  of  those  who  have  seen  Hope  mock  them 
with  a  smile  a  moment,  to  leave  them  face  to 
face  with  Death. 

"  Poor  fools !  "  sighed  the  old  vine  from  his 
corner  in  the  gray,  dull  twilight  of  the  late 
autumn  day. 

Was  the  vine  right? 

The  air  which  he  had  breathed  for  fifty  years 
through  all  his  dust-choked  leaves  and  tendrils 
had  been  the  air  off  millions  of  human  lungs, 
corrupted  in  its  passage  through  millions  of 
human  lips  ;  and  the  thoughts  which  he  thought 
were  those  of  human  wisdom. 

The  sad  day  died ;  the  night  fell ;  the  lattice 
was  closed ;  the  flute  lay  untouched.  A  great 
misery  seemed  to  enfold  us.  True,  we  were  no 
worse  off  than  we  had  been  when  the  same  day 
dawned.  But  that  is  the  especial  cruelty  of 
every  tempter  always :  he  touches  the  innocent, 
closed  eyes  of  his  victims  with  a  collyrium 
which  makes  the  happy  blindness  of  content 
no  longer  possible.  If  strong  to  resist  him,  he 
has  still  his  vengeance,  for  they  are  never  again 
at  peace  as  they  were  before  that  fatal  hour  in 
which  he  showed  them  all  that  they  were  not, 
all  that  they  might  be. 


68  A    PROVENCE   ROSE. 

Our  stove  was  not  more  chill,  our  garret 
not  more  empty ;  our  darkness  not  more  dark 
amidst  the  gay,  glad,  dazzling  city;  our  dusky 
roof  and  looming  crown  that  shut  the  sky  out 
from  us  not  more  gloomy  and  impenetrable 
than  they  had  been  on  all  those  other  earlier 
nights  when  yet  we  had  been  happy.  Yet  how 
intensified  million-fold  seemed  cold  and  loneli- 
ness and  poverty  and  darkness,  all !  —  for  we 
had  for  the  first  time  known  what  it  was  to  think 
of  riches,  of  fame,  of  homage,  of  light,  as  possi- 
ble, and  then  to  lose  them  all  forever ! 

I  had  been  resigned  for  love's  sake  to  dwell 
amongst  the  roofs,  seeing  not  the  faces  of  the 
stars,  nor  feeling  ever  the  full  glory  of  the  sun ; 
but  now  —  I  had  dreamed  of  the  fair  freedom 
of  garden-ways  and  the  endless  light  of  summer 
suns  on  palace  terraces,  and  I  drooped  and 
shivered  and  sickened,  and  was  twice  captive 
and  twice  exiled,  and  knew  that  I  was  a  little 
nameless,  worthless,  hapless  thing,  whose  fairest 
chaplet  of  blossom  no  hand  would  ever  gather 
for  a  crown. 

As  with  my  life,  so  was  it  likewise  with  theirs. 

They  had  been  so  poor,  but  they  had  been 
so  happy:  the  poverty  remained,  the  joy  had 
flown. 


A   PROVENCE   ROSE.  69 

The  winter  was  again  very  hard,  very  cold : 
they  suffered  greatly. 

They  could  scarcely  keep  together  body  and 
soul,  as  your  strange  phrase  runs ;  they  went 
without  food  sometimes  for  days  and  days,  and 
fuel  they  had  scarcely  ever. 

The  bird  in  his  cage  was  sold ;  they  would 
not  keep  the  little  golden  singing  thing  to  starve 
to  silence  like  themselves. 

As  for  me,  I  nearly  perished  of  the  cold ; 
only  the  love  I  bore  to  Lili  kept  a  little  life  in 
my  leafless  branches. 

All  that  cruel  winter-time  they  were  strong 
still,  those  children  of  Paris. 

For  they  sought  no  alms,  and  in  their  utter- 
most extremity  neither  of  them  ever  whispered 
to  the  other :  "  Go  seek  the  tempter ;  repent, 
be  wise.  Give  not  up  our  lives  for  a  mere 
phantasy  of  honor." 

"  When  the  snow  is  on  the  ground,  and  the 
canvases  have  to  burn  in  the  stove,  then  you 
will  change  your  minds  and  come  to  me  on 
your  knees,"  the  old  wicked,  foul  spirit  had  said 
mocking  them,  as  he  had  opened  the  door  of 
the  attic  and  passed  away  creaking  down  the 
dark  stairs. 

And  I  suppose  he  had  reckoned  on  this ;   but 


70  A   PROVENCE   ROSE. 

if  he  had  done  so,  he  had  reckoned  without  his 
host,  as  your  phrase  runs :  neither  Rene  nor  Lili 
ever  went  to  him,  either  on  knees  or  in  any 
other  wise. 

When  the  spring  came  we  three  were  still  all 
living  —  at  least  their  hearts  still  beat  and  their 
lips  still  drew  breath,  as  my  boughs  were  still 
green  and  my  roots  still  clung  to  the  soil.  But 
no  more  to  them  or  to  me  did  the  coming  of 
spring  bring,  as  of  old,  the  real  living  of  life, 
which  is  joy.  And  my  lover  the  wind  wooed 
me  no  more,  and  the  birds  no  more  brought  me 
the  rose-whispers  of  my  kindred  in  Provence. 
For  even  the  little  pigeon-hole  in  the  roof  had 
become  too  costly  a  home  for  us,  and  we  dwelt 
in  a  den  under  the  stones  of  the  streets,  where 
no  light  came  and  scarce  a  breath  of  air  ever 
strayed  to  us. 

There  the  uncompleted  canvases,  on  which 
the  painter  whom  Lili  loved  had  tried  to  write 
his  title  to  the  immortality  of  fame,  were  at  last 
finished  —  finished,  for  the  rats  ate  them. 

All  this  while  we  lived  —  the  man  whose 
genius  and  misery  were  hell  on  earth ;  the 
woman  whose  very  purity  and  perfectness  of 
love  were  her  direst  torture ;  and  I,  the  little 
white  flower  born  of  the  sun  and  the  dew,  of 


A    PROVENCE    ROSE.  Jl 

fragrance  and  freedom,  to  whom  every  moment 
of  this  blindness,  this  suffocation,  this  starvation, 
this  stench  of  putrid  odors,  this  horrible  roar  of 
the  street  above,  was  a  moment  worse  than  any 
pang  of  death. 

Away  there  in  Provence  so  many  a  fair  rose- 
sister  of  mine  bowed  her  glad,  proud,  innocent 
head  with  anguish  and  shuddering  terrors  to  the 
sharp  summons  of  the  severing  knife  that  cut 
in  twain  her  life,  whilst  I  — I,  on  and  on  —  was 
forced  to  keep  so  much  of  life  as  lies  in  the 
capacity  to  suffer  and  to  love  in  vain. 

So  much  was  left  to  them :  no  more. 

"Let  us  compel  Death  to  remember  us,  since 
even  Death  forgets  us  !  "  Rene  murmured  once 
in  his  despair  to  her. 

But  Lili  had  pressed  her  famished  lips  to  his  : 
"  Nay,  dear,  wait ;  God  will  remember  us  even 
yet,  I  think." 

It  was  her  faith.  And  of  her  faith  she  was 
justified  at  last. 

There  came  a  ghastlier  season  yet,  a  time  of 
horror  insupportable  —  of  ceaseless  sound  be- 
side which  the  roar  of  the  mere  traffic  of  the 
streets  would  have  seemed  silence  —  a  stench 
beside  which  the  sulphur  smoke  and  the  gas 
fumes  of  a  previous  time  would  have  been  as 


72          A  PROVENCE  ROSE. 

some  sweet,  fresh  woodland  air  —  a  famine  beside 
which  the  daily  hunger  of  the  poor  was  remem- 
bered as  the  abundance  of  a  feast  —  a  cold 
beside  which  the  chillness  of  the  scant  fuel  and 
empty  braziers  of  other  winters  were  recalled 
as  the  warmth  of  summer  —  a  darkness  only 
lit  by  the  red  flame  of  burning  houses  —  a 
solitude  only  broken  by  the  companionship  of 
woe  and  sickness  and  despair  —  a  suffocation 
only  changed  by  a  rush  of  air  strong  with  the 
scent  of  blood,  of  putridity,  of  the  million  liv- 
ing plague-stricken,  of  the  million  dead  lying 
unburied. 

For  there  was  war. 

Of  year  or  day  or  hour  I  knew  nothing.  It 
was  always  the  same  blackness  as  of  night ;  the 
same  horror  of  sound,  of  scent,  of  cold ;  the 
same  misery ;  the  same  torture.  I  suppose 
that  the  sun  was  quenched,  that  the  birds  were 
dumb,  that  the  winds  were  stilled  forever  —  that 
all  the  world  was  dead ;  I  do  not  know.  They 
called  it  War.  I  suppose  that  they  meant  — 
Hell! 

Yet  Lili  lived,  and  I ;  in  that  dead  darkness 
we  had  lost  Rene  —  we  saw  his  face  no  more. 
Yet  he  could  not  be  in  his  grave,  I  knew,  for 
Lili,  clasping  my  barren  branches  to  her  breast, 


A   PROVENCE   ROSE.  73 

would  murmur :  "  Whilst  he  still  lives  I  will  live 
—  yes,  yes,  yes  !  " 

And  she  did  live  —  so  long,  so  long  !  — on  a 
few  draughts  of  water  and  a  few  husks  of  grain. 

I  knew  that  it  was  long,  for  full  a  hundred 
times  she  muttered  aloud:  "Another  day?  O 
God  !  —  how  long?  how  long?  " 

At  last  in  the  darkness  a  human  hand  was 
stretched  to  her,  once,  close  beside  me.  A  foul, 
fierce  light,  the  light  of  flame,  was  somewhere 
on  the  air  about  us,  and  that  moment  glowed 
through  the  horrid  gloom  we  dwelt  in  in  the 
bowels  of  the  earth.  I  saw  the  hand  and  what 
it  held  to  her ;  it  was  a  stranger's,  and  it  held 
the  little  colorless  dead  rose,  my  sweetest  blos- 
som, that  had  lain  ever  upon  Rene's  heart. 

She  took  it — she  who  had  given  it  as  her 
first  love-gift.  She  was  mute.  In  the  glare  of 
the  flame  that  quivered  through  the  darkness  I 
saw  her  —  standing  quite  erect  and  very  still. 

The  voice  of  a  stranger  thrilled  through  the 
din  from  the  world  above. 

"He  fought  as  only  patriots  can,"  it  said 
softly  and  as  through  tears.  "  I  was  beside 
him.  He  fell  with  Regnault  in  the  sortie  yes- 
terday. He  could  not  speak ;  he  had  only 


74  A    PROVENCE   ROSE. 

strength  to  give  me  this  for  you.    Be  comforted  ; 
he  has  died  for  Paris." 

On  Lili's  face  there  came  once  more  the 
radiance  of  a  perfect  peace,  a  glory  pure  and 
endless  as  the  glory  of  the  sun.  "  Great  in 
death  !  "  she  murmured.  "  My  love,  my  love, 
I  come !  " 

I  lost  her  in  the  darkness. 

I  heard  a  voice  above  me  say  that  life  had 
left  her  lips  as  the  dead  rose  touched  them. 

What  more  is  there  for  me  to  tell? 

I  live,  since  to  breathe,  and  to  feel  pain,  and 
to  desire  vainly,  and  to  suffer  always,  are  surest 
proofs  of  life. 

I  live,  since  that  stranger's  hand,  which 
brought  my  little  dead  blossom  as  the  mes- 
sage of  farewell,  had  pity  on  me  and  brought 
me  away  from  that  living  grave.  But  the  pity 
was  vain ;  I  died  the  only  death  that  had  any 
power  to  hurt  me  when  the  human  heart  I  loved 
grew  still  forever. 

The  light  of  the  full  day  now  shines  on  me ; 
the  shadows  are  cool,  the  dews  are  welcome ; 
they  speak  around  me  of  the  coming  of  spring, 
and  in  the  silence  of  the  dawns  I  hear  from  the 
woods  without  the  piping  of  the  nesting  birds ; 
but  for  me  the  summer  can  never  more  return 


A   PROVENCE   ROSE. 


75 


—  for  me  the  sun  can  never  again  be  shining  — 
for  me  the  greenest  garden  world  is  barren  as  a 
desert. 

For  I  am  only  a  little  rose,  but  I  am  in  exile 
and  France  is  desolate. 


CHARMING  JUVENILE   STORIES 

Price,  Fifty  Cents  Each 

THE  FORTUNES  OF  THE  FELLOW.  By  WILL  ALLEN 
DKOMGOOLE. 

THE  GATE  OF  THE  GIANT  SCISSORS.  By  ANNIE  FELLOWS- 
JOHNSTON. 

THE  SLEEVING  BEAUTY.  A  Modern  Version.  By  MARTHA 
BAKER  DUNN. 

THE  YOUNG  ARCHER.    By  CHARLES  E.  BUIMBLECOM. 

A  LITTLE  PURITAN  REBEL.    By  EDITH  ROBINSON. 

THE  FARRIER'S  DOG  AND  HIS  FELLOW.  By  WILL  ALLEN 
DROMGOOLE. 

THE  PRINCE  OF  THE  PIN  ELVES.  By  CHARLES  LEE 
SLEIGHT. 

A  DOG  OF  FLANDERS.    By  "  OUIDA." 

THE  NURNBERG  STOVE.    By  "  OUIDA." 

OLE  MAMMY'S  TORMENT.    By  ANNIE  FELLOWS-JOHNSTON. 

THE  LITTLE  COLONEL.    By  ANNIE  FELLOWS-JOHNSTON. 

BIG  BROTHER.    By  ANNIE  FELLOWS-JOHNSTON. 

A  LOYAL  LITTLE  MAID.    By  EDITH  ROBINSON. 

THE  LITTLE  LAME  PRINCE.    By  Miss  MULOCH. 

THE  ADVENTURES  OF  A  BROWNIE.    By  Miss  MULOCH. 

HIS  LITTLE  MOTHER.    By  Miss  MULOCH. 

WEE   DOROTHY'S    TRUE    VALENTINE.    By    LAURA    UPDE- 

GRAFF. 

LA  BELLE  NIVERNAISE.    The  Story  of  an  Old  Boat  and  Her 

Crew.    By  ALPHONSE  DAUDET. 

A  GREAT  EMERGENCY.    By  JULIANA  HORATIA  EWING. 
THE  TRINITY   FLOWER.    By  JULIANA  HORATIA  EWING. 
STORY  OF  A  SHORT  LIFE.    By  JULIANA  HORATIA  EWING. 
JACKANAPES.    BY  JULIANA  HORATIA  EWING. 
RAB  AND  HIS  FRIENDS.    By  DR.  JOHN  BROWN. 
THE  KING  OF  THE  GOLDEN  RIVER.     A  Legend  of  Stiria. 

By  JOHN  RUSKIN. 
THE  YOUNG  KING.    THE  STAR  CHILD.    Two  Tales. 


Published  by  L.  C  PAGE  AND  COMPANY 
212  Summer  Street-  Boston 


COSY  CORNER  SERIES.  —  Continued. 

THE  LITTLE  COLONEL'S  NEIGHBORS.    By  ANNIE  FELLOWS- 
JOHNSTON. 

A  LITTLE  DAUGHTER  OF  LIBERTY.    By  EDITH  ROBINSON. 
LITTLE  KING  DAVIE.    By  NELLIE  HELLIS. 
LITTLE  PETERKIN  VANDIKE.     By  CHARLES  STUART  PKATT. 
THE  MAKING  OF  ZIMRI  BUNKER.    By  W   J.  LONG. 


COSY  CORNER  SERIES 

FOR 

OLDER  READERS 


A  Series  of  Short  Original  Stories,  or  Reprints  of  Well-knowiv 
Favorites,  Sketches  of  Travel,  Essays  and  Poems. 


The  books  of  this  series  answer  a  long-felt  need  for  a  half -hour's 
entertaining  reading,  while  in  the  railway  car,  during  the  summer 
outing  in  the  country  or  at  the  seaside,  or  by  the  evening  lamp  at 
home.  They  are  particularly  adapted  for  reading  aloud,  contain- 
ing nothing  but  the  best  from  a  literary  standpoint,  and  are  un- 
excepti-nable  in  every  way.  They  are  printed  from  good  type, 
illustrated  with  original  sketches  by  good  artists,  and  neatly 
bound  in  cloth.  The  size  is  a  16mo,  not  too  large  for  the  pocket. 

Price,  Fifty  Cents  Each 

MEMORIES   OF  THE  MANSE.    GLIMPSES  o*   SCOTTISH  LIFE 

AND  CHARACTER.    By  ANNE  BREADALBANE. 
CHRISTMAS  AT  YHOMPSON  HALL.    By  ANTHONY  TROLLOPE 
A  PROVENCE  ROSE.    By  LOUISA  DE  LA  RAME  (OuiDA). 
IN  DISTANCE  AND  IN  DREAM.    By  M.  F.  SWEETSER. 
WILL  O'  THE  MILL.    By  ROBERT  Louis  STEVENSON. 


Published  by  L.  C  PAGE  AND  COMPANY 

212  Summer  Street,  Boston 


GIFT   BOOK    SERIES    FOR   BOYS 
AND   GIRLS 

Tall  12mo,  1  Volume,  Price,  $1.00  Each 


A  series  of  well-written,  popular  copyright  books,  by  well-known 
authors.  Each  story  has  been  carefully  selected  with  a  view  to 
making  a  series  of  clean,  wholesome,  and  interesting  books,  es- 
pecially suitable  as  presents  for  boys  and  girls  from  eight  to 
sixteen.  Each  book  is  profusely  illustrated  with  full-page  and 
text  illustrations,  the  type  is  clear  and  good,  the  binding  rich 
and  attractive,  and  each  volume  has  a  separate  cover  design. 
LITTLE  BERMUDA.  By  MARIA  LOUISE  POOL,  author  of 

"  Dally,"  "  A  Redbridge  Neighborhood,"  "  In  a  Dike  Shanty," 

"  Friendship  and  Folly,"  etc. 
THE  WILD  RUTHVENS.    A  HOME  STORY.    By  CURTIS  YORK. 

Illustrated  by  E.  F.  Manning. 

A  capital  tale  of  a  lot  of  lovable,  romping  children.  The  story 
has  achieved  a  great  success  in  England,  where  it  has  reached  its 
60,000.  It  is  very  similar  in  style  and  interest  to  Miss  Alcott's 
"  Little  Men"  and  "  Little  Women." 

KING  PIPPIN.  A  STORY  FOR  CHILDREN.  By  MRS.  GERARD 
FORD,  author  of  "  Pixie."  With  forty  illustrations  by  Flor- 
ence N.  Cooper. 

One  of  the  most  delightful  books  for  young  folks  which  has 
been  issued  for  some  time.  The  reader,  young' or  old,  whatever 
his  temperament,  will  be  arrested,  benefited,  and  absorbed. 

THE  ADVENTURES  OF  A  SIBERIAN  CUB.  Translated  from 
the  Russian  of  Slibitski  by  LEOX  GOLSCHMANN.  With  twenty- 
four  illustrations  by  Winifred  Foster. 

This  is  indeed  a  book  which  will  be  hailed  with  delight,  espe- 
cially by  children  who  love  to  read  about  animals. 

fHE  WOODRANGER.    By  G.  W.  BROWN. 

The  first  of  a  series  of  five  volumes  entitled  "  The  Woodranger 
rales."  Although  each  book  is  complete  in  itself,  the  same  char- 
acters will  be  continued  throughout  the  series.  This  series,  like 
the  "  Pathfinder  Tales  "  of  J.  Fenimore  Cooper,  will  combine  his- 
torical information  relating  to  early  pioneer  days  in  America  with 
interesting  adventures  in  the  backwoods. 


Published  by  L.  C  PAGE  AND  COMPANY 

212  Summer  Street,  Boston 


GIFT  BOOK  SERIES  FOR  BOYS  AND  GIRLS. -.Continued, 

THREE  LITTLE  CRACKERS.  By  WILL  ALLEN  DROMGOOLE, 
author  of  "  The  Farrier's  Dog,"  etc.,  with  fifty  text  and  full- 
page  illustrations. 

A  fascinating  story  for  boys  and  girls.  The  adventures  of  a 
family  of  Alabama  children  who  move  to  Florida  und  grow  up  in 
the  South  are  described,  with  the  combined  humor  and  pathos 
which  give  this  gifted  young  Southern  author  so  high  a  place  in 
the  ranks  of  American  writers. 

THREE  CHILDREN  OF  GALILEE.  A  LIFE  OF  CHRIST  FOB 
THE  YOUNG.  By  JOHN  GORDON.  Beautifully  illustrated  with 
more  than  one  hundred  text  and  full-page  illustrations  of 
Holy  Land  scenery. 

There  has  long  been  a  need  for  a  Life  of  Christ  for  the  young, 
and  this  book  has  been  written  in  answer  to  this  demand.  That 
it  will  meet  with  great  favor  is  beyond  question,  for  parents  have 
recognized  that  their  boys  and  girls  want  something  more  than  a 
Bible  Story,  a  dry  statement  of  facts,  and  that,  in  order  to  hold 
the  attention  of  the  youthful  readers,  a  book  on  this  subject 
should  have  life  and  movement  as  well  as  scrupulous  accuracy 
and  religious  sentiment. 

MISS   GRAY'S   GIRLS;  OR,  SUMMER   DAYS   IN  THE   SCOTTISH 
HIGHLANDS.    By  JEANNETTE  A.  GRANT.    With  about  sixty 
illustrations  in  half-tone  and  pen-and-ink  sketches  of  Scot- 
tish scenery. 
A  delightfully  told  story  of  a  summer  trip  through  Scotland, 

somewhat  out  of  the  beaten  track. 

THE   FAIRY  FOLK   OF   BLUE   HILL.     A  STORY  OF   FOLK- 
LORE.   By  LILY  F.  WESSELHOEFT,  author  of  "  Sparrow  the 
Tramp,"  etc.,  with  fifty-five  illustrations  from  original  draw- 
ings by  Alfred  C.  Eastman. 
A  new  volume  by  Mrs.  Wesselhoeft,  well  known  as  one  of  our 

best  writers  for  the'  young,  and  who  has  made  a  host  of  friends 

among  the  young  people  who  have  read  her  delightful  books. 

This  book  ought  to  interest  and  appeal  to  every  child  who  has 

read  her  earlier  works. 


Published  by  L.  C.  PAGE  AND  COMPANY 

2J2  Summer  Street,  Boston 


(SIFT  BOOK  SERIES  FOli  JiO  YS  AND  GIRLS,  —  Continued. 

FEATS  ON  THE  FIORD.  A  TALE  OF  NORWEGIAN  LIFE.  By 
HAKRIET  MARTINEAU.  With  about  sixty  original  illustra- 
tions and  a  colored  frontispiece. 

This  admirable  book,  read  and  enjoyed  by  so  many  young 
people,  deserves  to  be  brought  to  the  attention  of  parents  in 
search  of  wholesome  reading  for  their  children  to-day.  It  is 
something  more  than  a  juvenile  book,  being  really  one  of  the 
most  instructive  books  about  Norway  and  Norwegian  life  and 
manners  ever  written,  well  deserving  liberal  illustration  and  the 
luxury  of  good  paper  now  given  to  it. 

SONGS  AND  RHYMES  FOR  THE  LITTLE  ONES.  Compiled 
by  MARY  WHITNEY  MORRISON  (Jenny  Wallis).  New  edition, 
with  an  introduction  by  Mrs.  A.  D.  T.  Whitney,  and  eight 
illustrations. 

No  better  description  of  this  admirable  book  can  be  given 
than  Mrs.  Whitney's  happy  introduction. 

"  One  might  almost  as  well  offer  June  roses  with  the  assur- 
ance of  their  sweetness,  as  to  present  this  lovely  little  gathering 
of  verse  which  announces  itself,  like  them,  by  its  own  delicious- 
ness.  .  .  .  The  most  bewitching  book  of  songs  for  little  people 
that  we  have  ever  known." 

THE  YOUNG  PEARL  DIVERS.  A  STORY  OF  AUSTRALIAN 
ADVENTURE  BY  LAND  AND  BY  SEA.  By  LIEUT.  H.  PHELPS 
WHITMARSH,  author  of  "The  Mysterious  Voyage  of  the 

Daphne,"  etc.     Illustrated  with  twelve  full-page  half-tones,  by 

H.  Burgess,  whose  drawings  have  exactly  caught  the  spirited  tone 

of  the  narrative. 

This  is  a  splendid  story  for  boys,  by  an  author  who  writes  in 

vigorous  and  interesting  language,  of  scenes  and  adventures  with 

which  he  is  personally  acquainted. 

TIMOTHY  DOLE.  By  JUNIATA  SALSBITRY.  With  twenty-five  or 
thirty  illustrations  from  drawings  and  pen-and-ink  sketches. 
The  title  gives  no  clue  to  the  character  of  the  book,  but  the 
reader  who  begins  the  first  chapter  will  not  stop  until  he  has 
finished  the  whole.  The  youthful  hero,  and  a  genuine  hero  he 
proves  to  be,  starts  from  home,  loses  his  way,  meets  with  startling 
adventures,  finds  friends,  kind  and  many,  grows  to  be  a  manly 
man,  and  is  able  to  devote  himself  to  bettering  the  condition  of 
the  poor  in  the  mining  region  of  Pennsylvania,  the  scene  of  his 
early  life  and  adventures. 


Published  by  L.  C  PAGE  AND  COMPANY 
212  Summer  Street,  Boston 


OTHER  NEW  JUVENILES 


OLD  FATHER  GANDER.    A  BOOK  OF  RHYMES  AND  PICTURES 
FOR  YOUNG  PEOPLE.    By  WALTER  SCOTT  HOWARD. 
1  vol.,  oblong  quarto,  cloth,  decorative    ....        $2.00 
The  illustrations  are  so  striking  and  fascinating  that  the  book 

will  appeal  to  young  people  aside  from  the  fact  even  of  the  charm 

and  humor  of  the  songs  and  rhymes. 

THE  CROCK  OF  GOLD.    A  NEW  BOOK  OF  FAIRY  TALES.    By 
8.  BARING  GOULD,  author  of  "  Mehalah,"  "  Old  Country  Life," 
"Old  English  Fairy  Tales,"  etc.    With  twenty-five  full-page 
illustrations  by  F.  D.  Bedford. 
1  vol.,  tall  12mo,  cloth,  decorative,  gilt  top     .       .       .       $1.50 

THE  VOYAGE  OF  THE  AVENGER.  IN  THE  DAYS  OF  THE 
DASHING  DRAKE.  By  HENRY  ST.  JOHN,  author  of  "  A  Middy 
of  Nelson's  Day,"  etc.  With  twenty-five  full-page  illustrations 
by  Paul  Hardy. 

1  vol.,  tall  12mo,  cloth,  decorative,  gilt  top,  400  pages         $1.50 
A  boy's  book  of  adventure,  the  scene  of  which  is  laid  in  tha; 

stirring  period  of    colonial  extension  when    England's  famous 

naval  heroes  encountered  the  ships  of  Spain,  both  at  home  and  in 

the  West  Indies. 

A  CHILD'S  HISTORY   OF   SPAIN.     By  LEONARD   WILLIAMS, 
author  of  "  Ballads  and  Songs  of  Spain,"  etc. 
1  vol.,  small  12mo,  with  frontispiece,  cloth,  gilt  top     .        $0.75 
The  author  describes  in  familiar  language  the  reconquest  of 

Spain  from  the  Moors,  and  her  subsequent  nistory  down  to  the 

E  resent  year,  and  the  peace  concluded  in  1898  with  the  United 
tates  of  America.  Throughout  the  work  the  narrative  and  dra- 
matic is  aimed  at,  rather  than  the  merely  statistical,  but  Mr. 
Williams's  ideal  may  be  best  summed  up  by  a  quotation  from  his 
preface.  He  says  :  "  It  seems  to  me  that  there  is  little  to  gain 
and  much  to  confuse,  by  insisting  too  minutely  on  the  dry  dates 
relating  to  the  Christian  and  Moorish  sovereigns  who  succeed  one 
another,  often  with  bewildering  rapidity,  in  Aragon,  Castile, 
Navarre,  and  Moslem  Spain. 

"  Now  and  again,  however,  a  great  fighting  king  stands  forth, 
head  and  shoulders  above  the  rest,  a  landmark,  so  to  speak,  amid 
the  wilderness.  Him  I  have  endeavored  to  throw  into  relief,  so 
that  even  a  child  may  be  able  to  point  to  him  and  exclaim, '  Here, 
at  least,  I  find  a  substantial  fact  and  figure.' " 


Published  by  L.  C  PAGE  AND  COMPANY 

212  Summer  Street,  Boston 


A     001036259 


